Murder Most 'Orrible
by A.A. Pessimal
Summary: Domestic Science at the Assassins' School, where whether you add almond essence is truly a life-or-death choice. Joan the teacher confiscates a copy of the "Tanty Bugle". And her past comes up to meet her...
1. Of the Tanty Bugle

_**The MGC returns? C1**_

It was a sunny spring morning in the Domestic Science demonstration room and student kitchen. The air was full of the warm, somewhat comforting, smells of pastry being made and kneaded and rolled, with the teacher's demonstration batch already sending its warm homely smell out to permeate the air.

Miss Sanderson- Reeves moved like a combination of angel and hawk among the thirty student Assassins, observing all as she went, offering a word of advice here, a rolled eye and a "_tcch!" _there at some minor act of omission or inanity, moving with the ease and confidence conferred by thirty years as a teacher. Her class of eleven-year old first year pupils, white aprons fastened over their uniforms, bent to their allocated assignment, but watched her warily

A spare and slender woman with what had once been brunette hair now fading to grey, their teacher wore the approved black, her purple teaching sash partly obscured by the apron with its logo _Never trust a skinny chef! . _Originally meant as one sort of not-very-funny-to-begin-with joke, on the spare and skinny Miss Sanderson-Reeves it meant something else entirely. She had been, after all, a renowned amateur poisoner before being invited to, ah, _legitimise_ the situation, by formally joining the Assassins' Guild. And cookery had been a favourite method of hers for distributing some rather unorthodox food additives. The pupils were rather disappointed that she did not propose to go into the more _professionally interesting_ aspects of food preparation until at least the third year.

"Before you learn how to cook _badly_, you must first know how to cook _well_!" she had proclaimed. "You only realise what you can get away with once you have mastered the basics. And you may rest assured that I will school you in those basic principles of good cooking!"

Christiana Selachii had raised a hand then. Joan had nodded, knowing by intelligent deduction what the question was going to be. _Pupil from one of the richest most noble families, subject as proletarian as Domestic Science…_

"Please, miss. What's the point of this? I mean, we don't _need _to do this. It's wasting time! Back home, we've got _servants_ to cook for us."

Joan nodded, having picked up the hidden sub-message of _At best, Daddy might employ you as assistant Cook, and you'd be a long way beneath the butler or the senior housemaid._ She also noted several dissident cries of approval. She nodded.

"Didn't you read the name on the gate when you were enrolled at this school, _miss_ Selachii?" she inquired. "This is the Assassins' School. We seek to turn out not just socially competent young people who can hold their own at any level of society – and consider that phrase for _all_ its meanings, if you please. This School also turns out _self-reliant_ members of society. Some of you will go on to take the Black Syllabus and become fully licenced Assassins. You will, almost certainly, end up in places from time to time where _no_ cooked food is available. Where there are no _servants_ to prepare it for you. Where whether you eat or go hungry is up to _you, _and nobody else. You will, most assuredly, then see the value in the basic skills you will learn in this classroom!"

She paused, to let it sink in.

"And you will see the wisdom of these words, Miss Selachii, when the time comes for Miss Smith-Rhodes or Miss Band to take you out on Wilderness Survival classes. Miss Smith-Rhodes in particular stresses the virtues, to the Assassin, of travelling fast, travelling light, and not being overly encumbered with too great a weight of food rations. She will, no doubt, teach you that if you can only carry limited weight, most of it will be in the form of weapons, ammunition, and necessary equipment. Food is what you find, or trap, on the trail, over the _two_ or _three_ days you will be out in the wilds. Happily, I do not have to teach you how to trap it or humanely slaughter it. But what you learn here in my classroom will mean – if you are paying attention – that at least you will not have to eat it _raw_."

Joan smiled benignly at her class.

"And now we've sorted _that_ out, we can jolly well do some basic baking! Copy this down: one pound of white plain flour…"

And now the pastry-making was well advanced. Joan stalked her classroom, watching, advising, chiding. Then she stopped dead.

"_Miss Lympe-Sandgate!" _she thundered, extending an accusing arm, finger pointed. The class stopped dead. _"_When did you last clean your_ fingernails, _girl_?"_

The object of her attention trembled. Joan continued.

"We may be the Assassins' Guild. I myself occasionally assist in the Poisons department if Mr Mericet needs a cover teacher. In the fullness of time I will be demonstrating the inhumation potential inherent in even the most _basic_ kitchen. I did not, however, expect to see it today! There is a world of difference, Miss Lympne-Sandgate, between coldly and deliberately carrying out a planned and prepared inhumation by means of poisoning the client's lunch. And doing it randomly and haphazardly, through the means of mixing his pastry with hands as mucky as _yours_. Throw those ingredients away, _at once_, then go to the scullery where you will find running water and a nail-brush! Then do _not _return to my classroom until your fingernails are _completely_ clean!"

She stilled a rising snigger in the classroom by loudly announcing

"And that goes for all of you! Is that clearly understood? In fact, I will examine _all _your fingernails, and woe betide anyone _else_ who is in an unclean condition!" "

_The girl is in Tump House_, Joan thought_. I'd better discreetly tell Alice one of hers is falling short on acceptable hygiene. Bit of a slight cheesy whiff there, too. There's always one who thinks soap is a sort of foul-tasting cheese, in every First Year. _

"Yes, Miss!" the shout came back.

Joan nodded, and relaxed her fierce gaze. Then she added:

"Bring it to the front, Miss Hastings-Rye. Thank you _so_ much."

The something was a copy of the _**Tanty Bugle**_, Ankh-Morpork's premier penny-dreadful, a crime reportage magazine about murders, attempted murders, slayings and poisonings, the more 'orrible the better. Standard practice at the Guild was to confiscate it where seen in the possession of a pupil, although a skilled teacher like Emmanuelle Lapoignard Les Deux-Épées was perfectly capable of making a class discussion out of it. **(2)**

_Ah well, something to read in the staffroom later…_

And she stowed it away in her bag, with a stern admonition to her pupil that nobody gets to be an Assassin by reading about the supposed doings of untrained amateur killers who only succeed in getting arrested by the City Watch. And before anyone who thinks they know anything about me raises the obvious, I was arrested by the _Assassins' Guild_ in my old life, I hope that's clearly understood?

The class continued, pastry was baked and in some cases burnt, allowing Joan to liken the results to those of the old King of Lancre who fell asleep, and thus incurred the wrath of the terrible old lady whose cooking he had spoilt. **(2)**

After fifteen minutes of tidying and oven-cleaning – Joan insisted on this in her students, that however highly born they were, they could _still_ jolly well clear up after themselves – the morning break bell rang.

Gratefully, she pushed her way through the throng of students to the Staffroom, and helped herself to a mug of tea. She registered, with distaste, that in common with teachers' common rooms the Multiverse over, that at the Assassins' Guild School also carried a perma-fog of cigarette smoke, and the dominant smells were those of tweed, sweat and nicotine.

She made her way to the non-smoker's corner of the staffroom, a bay window recess where a window had pointedly been thrown open and her colleague Alice Band was glaring at anyone even seeming to suggest that it should be closed again. Johanna Smith-Rhodes was sitting at her ease in the window recess, booted legs drawn up in front of her. Alice and Johanna made room for Joan, and the three of them compared their mornings.

"How is it" Alice complained, "that the name _Venturi, Rust_ or _Selachii_ on the class roll is shorthand for _Highly bred idiot with half a brain cell?"_

Johanna snorted. "Mine's en Eorle!" she said. "Seems to think you deal with a lion by beshing it on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper end speaking _very loudly and firmly_ to it!"

"Shouldn't worry, m'dear." Joan said. "Some things, even a lion would find indigestible. Too thick and stodgy! Like half this city's noble children. Mine's a Selachii. I'll give you two guesses as to what she said!"

"Why do I need to learn how to cook, when my family employs servants for that sort of thing?" mused Alice.

"Oh, you've heard it, then?"

"No, just good guesswork. Rich pupil, plebeian subject. Is that the latest _**Bugle**_ you've got there?"

Joan unfolded it. The Tanty Bugle had one of its largest circulations, had it but known it, in the staffroom at the Assassins' School. Even if it was a professionally critical readership, like the orchestra conductor who would go to somebody else's performance and heckle.

"Whet's the headline?" Johanna asked, leaning forward. They read the headline.

"Oh, my goodness…" said Alice.

_Die hemel, Arse en tweernen! _said Johanna, with feeling.

Joan just looked shocked.

**THE RETURN OF THE MARRIAGE GUIDANCE COUNSELLOR? **

The Bugle has learnt that in the past six months, no less than five men who have died in mysterious circumstances in the City of Ankh-Morpork may be the victims of the same serial killer! Criminologists studying unsolved murders in the Ankh-Morpork area have discovered a common thread linking the otherwise random slayings. All have been by poison and all the victims have had charges of wife-beating, child-abuse or of otherwise perpetrating domestic assault. This was the modus operandum of the serial killer known only as the Marriage Guidance Counsellor who disappeared over four years ago, believed to have been trapped, tried, and executed by the Assassins' Guild, as is their right in cases of freelance Assassination carried out outside Guild auspices… is she back? Is it true? The moral of the story, gentlemen, is that you should be loving and kind to your wife. Or the dark equalizing avenger called the Marriage Guidance counsellor may come looking for _you_…

_(On other pages! The MGC's reign of terror and her twenty-four known victims. Pages 4-14 inclusive. We revisit the hellish years that made men afraid to go out alone!)_

"Joan, this _can't _be right. _You_ were the Marriage Guidance Counsellor, before the Guild got you!" Alice said.

"Of _course_ it isn't right. I only got eighteen, but they always persist in making it twenty-four!" Joan said, weakly.

"Joan_, please_ tell me you haven't been…you know, feeling the old urge egain?" Johanna said, eyes wide.

Joan shook her head, smiling. She looked around her. She wasn't the only _**Tanty Bugle**_ reader in the staffroom, by any means.

"No. Honestly and emphatically no!" she said, reasserting her usual firmness. "Vetinari made it an absolute condition of my getting parole. If I ever _sterilised _again, outside a legitimate Guild contract, the City would have no option other than to activate my death sentence. Lord Downey was bound to police that."

"But _somebody_ is. And they're using your name!" said Alice.

Joan nodded. She looked around her, at the tableau presented by off-duty Guild teachers going about their private and public preoccupations. There was Bill Bradlifudd, the bluff and genial young Boys' Games Master, on the face of it talking PE department business with Emmanuelle-Marie Lapoignard Les Deux-Épées (Swords, bladed weapons, metalwork, some Girls' PE). With its usual subcurrent of _for nearly five years now I've been trying to get into your bed, Emmie, for a really deep departmental conference on physical activity! _Matched with _Alors! How I wish I could oblige! But I make it a rule to keep my lovers and my career absolutely separate, cher Bill, although it flatters me that you try so hard!_ And both of them smoking, a fine example in Physical Education tutors.

There was Grune di Nivor and the Compte de Yoyo, arms flying animatedly in some discussion on Edificeering, she supposed. Doktor von Ubersetzer, the music master, engrossed in a score.

And Lady T'Malia (Political Expediency) bearing down on her like a ship in a healthy trade wind, right down to creaking of sails and mainstays.

"Joan, my dear!" she announced. Then lowered her voice. "I'm so sorry, but you have an appointment to see the Master. I'm _sure_ no blame attaches to you!"

"She will be back?" Alice Band asked, anxiously.

"Of _course_, Alice! Sometimes… you know when Commander Vimes puts out a Press release to the Times to the effect that someone is helping the Watch with their inquiries? And most of the time that's taken as shorthand for "_We've got the blighter who dunnit, but the snag is they haven't confessed yet?_" Well, this is the _other_ sort of "helping the Guild with its inquiries". Nothing more, nothing less, nothing presumed, and nothing accused. Please put that message out, ladies?"

T'Malia and Joan left the staffroom together, Joan hideously aware she was the subject of many discreet glances and outright stares, but keeping her chin defiantly up.

"I'm so sorry, Joan. You must be _mortified._" T'Malia said. "But hopefully we can sort this wretched mess out quickly, and get back to normal. I will, of course, circulate the word that you are blameless." She paused, and whispered, anxiously, "You _are_ blameless, aren't you?"

Joan sighed. And it had started off as _such_ a good morning…

T'Malia knoced at the forbidding black oak door of the Master's study.

"Enter!" called Lord Downey.

They entered. Joan found herself sitting alone on the far side of the Master's desk, poised between the four granite pillars. Again, she wondered about the one with the blade-shaped hole in it, running neatly from front to back, at roughly heart-height. Nobody ever wanted to talk about that very much.

Behind the desk was Lord Downey, maintaining his look of a concerned parish priest or a kindly schoolmaster. T'Malia took a seat to his right. To his left and right were people yet to be introduced to her, two Assassins and a seeming civilian, a slightly built fair-haired young man with a modest moustache. She'd met him before somewhere…

"So kind of you to make time for me, Miss Sanderson-Reeves" Dowwney said, affably. Sherry? Perhaps not. Too early in the day, perhaps? Almond slice? Ah, I forgot for a moment your particular teaching speciality. Of course not. You bake them all the time with advanced pupils!"

T'Malia coughed, delicately.

"Of course, my Lady" Downey said. "Business in hand. I believe you have previously met Inspector André Loudweather of the Cable Street Particulars? "

Joan shook hands with André, who courteously rose to her. Of course. He'd been here with Vimes. That _other _interview in this office, nearly five years before.

"And these Senior Assassins are perhaps best identified to you as Mr Smith and Mr Jones. They are from Department QCIC. You have heard of it?"

Joan nodded. Like all other graduate Assassins, she had heard of the ultra-secret QCIC , the Guild's internal police, answerable only to the Dark Council.

"_Quis custodiet ipses custodes_. Who guards the guards? Q.C.I.C.."

Downey nodded. "They ensure compliance with the Concordat and the rules of Assassination. Their job became more important after the Teatime debacle several Hogswatches ago. If a member were ever to claim a fictitious or fraudulent contract fee with intent to earn money on false pretences, they would deal with administering due punishment. And when you and twenty-nine others were gathered in by the Guild five years ago as the nucleus of an accelerated training programme for mature entrants, who do you think gathered evidence? Put together reports? Traced long-cold trails to find clues pointing to specific individuals? And then located those individuals, and brought them to this office for the same sort of generous offer that was once made to you? "

Joan nodded. It fitted.

"In your case, of course, we were assisted by Lord Vetinari, who persuaded myself and Commander Vimes to sign what is now called the Downey-Vimes Accord. This set out ground rules for murder investigations in Ankh-Morpork. Just as the vast majority of Vice cases in this city are within the accepted jurisdiction of the Seamstresses' Guild and the Watch only have right of investigation in limited circumstances, I sought for a similar accommodation with the Watch concerning murder and homicide. On behalf of the Guild, I conceded that the overwhelming majority of murders, manslaughters and suicides are reflectively tawdry things, of little professional interest to us, and should remain within the purview of the Watch. However, just occasionally, an amateur inhumationist arises, who carries out their annulments with skill and style and a certain pride in the quality of their work. The essence of the Downey-Vimes Accord is that this Guild has an equal interest in tracking down and detaining the perpetrators of such _interesting _cancellations.

"And once detained, the civic law was set aside, where it applied, so that the person so detained could be offered the opportunity of redeeming themselves by becoming a fully-licenced Guild member. Especially in those cases where money has been proven to have changed hands between a person commissioning an inhumation, and the non-Guild freelance carrying it out. This was, after all, how we identified _you_ as an extraordinarily capable and stylish contract killer, and with the aid of the Cable Street Particulars, QCIC's investigation brought you to this office. I need only add that they would also have been charged with delivering the sentence upon you, should you have refused our offer to you."

Downey smiled.

"I hear the Marriage Guidance Counsellor has returned from the grave and, as before, is wreaking vengeance on behalf of wronged wives and abused children. The press believes her score to be five, ah, _sterilizations._ Our joint investigations make it seven, perhaps eight. Inspector?"

"Thank you, sir." said André. "Having had an opportunity to compare files with the gentlemen of the QCIC, I can safely say that Miss Sanderson-Reeves is not a suspect. For one thing, it doesn't fit her current profile, of one who is still under a suspended death sentence from the city, held in abeyance for so long as she remains a useful and productive member of the Assassins' Guild. She simply has too much to lose by returning to her former career.

"Secondly, two of the dead men already have Assassins' Guild contracts out on them. Miss Sanderson-Reeves could have dealt with them in the normal, legally correct, manner, and claimed the fees, as is her right as an Assassin. I'm assured the fees remain unclaimed. So this is not the work of a licenced Assassin."

"_Nil mortifi, sine lucre!" _chanted Downey and the two QCIC men.

"Indeed, sir. And the clincher is that Miss Sanderson-Reeves can be demonstrated to have been elsewhere on the dates of six of the eight murders. So she is not a suspect."

"I'm very glad to hear it!" Joan said, indignantly.

"So. Not only has somebody had the brass cheek to appropriate my old working name. They've actually diddled me out of two contract fees that I'd have relished taking! Now _that's_ adding insult to injury!"

"I'm so glad you feel that way, Miss Sanderson-Reeves. Now, having firmly established your innocence in this matter, I have a proposition to put to you. Out there is an noficial, unlicenced Assassin who has so far serially inhumed eight times. The balance of probabilities is that she – perhaps a he, although I doubt it – is taking money in return for these inhumations. She has taken your name and is working under your old _modus operandum."_

Downey paused, and steepled his fingers.

"In addition to QCIC and the CSP, I would like to ask you to add your skills to the hunt. This is a serial killer who thinks and acts like you did. I want you to go out there, think like her, outwit her, and find her. At any time, both the investigating bodies will give you full access to their files Anything new you discover can be disclosed to either.

"Oh, and Joan. This isn't the only such investigation currently going on. I'm hoping to be running another Mature Students' Entry Class next autumn. If you can, bring her in alive, so I can make her the standard offer. In the fullness of time, I'm going to be asking you and the other lady members of staff to assist in teaching the new Mature Students' class. But that's a few months away yet."

Downey rose from the desk and escorted her to the door.

"I do apologise for the inconvenience. I will, of course, ensure the Guild family realises that you are not a suspect in this case. And I thank you very much for your assistance, Joan".

* * *

**(1)** ("Now, _mes élèves_, can you tell me where ze Dyslexic Alphabet Killer went wrong, so that he suffered the misfortune of being arrested by ze Watch? I can perfectly assure you that le Gendarmerie de Quirm are completely incapable of locating _le cul_ even with both hands and a strong hint…")

**(2) **After being thoroughly beaten with her stick, he had decided nothing could be as terrifying and painful, ever again, and led a previously beaten Army out to settle accounts with those bloody Hublanders.


	2. Glimpses of School Life

_**The MGC returns? C2**_

Joan was not a woman given to excessive worry or introspection. Pushing the current worry to one side as something she wasn't yet in a position to do anything about, she resumed her teaching duties, briskly tackling a second class of first-year learners until the lunch bell went. She ate lunch on her own while performing routine school admin duties, and in the early afternoon, took a senior class in cookery. These were fourth-year pupils who she had taught since girls had first arrived at the Assassins' School four years before, and she had every confidence in their ability to do the advanced stuff.

She unlocked the black-painted Special Ingredients Cupboard, the one that the first-year pupils stared at with helpless covetous longing, and smiled at her class.

"Lord Downey has asked us to prepare a batch of his _special _almond slices. He has also requested a selection of special-recipe mint fancies. I'm sure we can accommodate his wishes! Now remember, girls, this sort of patisserie work calls for special precautions. Latex gloves and breathing masks _on_, if you please!" She paused, and added: "And we will use Number Twelve oven. The one that can be contained inside a sealed fume cupboard. "

It was a regular chore, and a good grading task for senior students. Joan smiled, and set about sifting some powdered white arsenic. _Hard work. A jolly good antidote to concerns. _

"Miss?" asked a pupil.

"Yes, miss Finchley?"

"Does anyone, you know, ever eat these? I would have thought everyone knew by now that if the Master asks you to his study, the sherry's safe but you don't touch the almond slice. Nor the mints."

Joan knew when to reward an intelligent question.

"Two reasons, m'dear. One, it's _traditional._ And you don't muck around with traditions. Two, I believe Lord Downey sometimes practices a sort of Zlobenian Roulette with the almond slices. He'll put out a plate where some are safe and some are not, and the visitor has to make a fast decision under pressure as to which is which. I do understand he has the antidote handy for those who get it wrong, though! His way of dealing with _overconfidence_, apparently. And of course, it gives you gels practical hands-on training in working with poisons!"

______________________________________------

She wound down in the latter part of the afternoon with a class in her other speciality, Elocution and Deportment. She made no apologies for teaching both: the _**Concordat **_said that the trained Assassin had to be able to seamlessly blend in with the highest social classes in all regards. And these days, the School's pupils came from just about all over the Disc, which meant, regrettably, that many of them carried accents and habits that had to be somewhat _ironed out._

She glanced at her notes. Three boys, first and second year students, one a talented charity entrant from Dimwell, and two overseas pupils from Howondaland. She nodded.

"I shall talk to you individually in a moment." She said. "But first I want you to be _absolutely _clear what the purpose of those lessons is. It might feel as if, in an hour when your classmates have been given a Free Study period, you have been unfairly singled out for extra work."

She paused.

"This is partially true. You have been identified by your form teachers and House Masters as boys who will benefit immensely from additional training. I will coach you, over the course of our sessions, into altering and changing your patterns of speech so that they conform to the accepted values of Received Pronunciation Morporkian. Let me make it absolutely clear this is _not_ being done out of unthinking reflex snobbery." Joan remembered a much younger teacher, also called Joan Sanderson-Reeves, who _had _taught elocution out of unthinking reflex snobbery , and who had been a stuffed shirt of a gel who jolly well deserved a great big kick in the pants. Joan glanced in a mirror - the Guild premises had a sufficiency - , and wondered what had become of the tiresome little stuffed-shirt snob. _She grew up, probably._

"No, gentlemen. The purpose of my small, intimate, classes is to enable you to learn a new skill, of value to the assassin's School graduate, called _blending in._ Over the course of the nest few years, you will attend parties, receptions, and formal presentations with some of the highest and most powerful and influential people in this land. Some will become friends and patrons, some will become, possibly, _clients_, some might even be both. It will be no service to you, and will detract from the skills and abilities you will ultimately develop, if you go into a formal reception speaking street Morporkian, or with pronounced Howondalandian accents that make you sound as if you've got off the latest orange boat just in at the docks. This is a pragmatic course. Some people speak of _comparative linguistics,_ which argues that no one accent or dialect has any intrinsic superiority over any other. A utopian idea, gentlemen, but one which in this city is absolutely dead wrong. It may even render you dead, in the social sense, which is bad news for an Assassin seeking contracts."

She smiled briefly at the three boys.

"Nobody is going to stop you being a Dimmie at home, or being as Howondalandian as you care to be, when among your own. Indeed, with Miss Smith-Rhodes among my colleagues, I would not _presume _to destroy your native accent altogether! " (Joan inwardly winced, remembering a sincerely-made attempt to offer Johanna Smith-Rhodes her services to "iron out that accent, my dear." Well, they'd all learnt since then.)

"Now. Mr Christianou Polyvinilchlorinos." She began. "You are twelve years old. Your family are Ephebian immigrants who run a kebab shop in Dimwell. You came to the notice of the Guild following a brutal armed robbery attempt on the premises early one Sunday morning. Shouts and screams were heard, and the Watch reported finding one robber dead, one unconscious, and the third begging to be arrested and taken away from _that bloody psycho kid_, as he's lethal! Subsequent investigation concluded that you acted in legitimate self-defence against unlicenced thieves – with a selection of improvised weapons, including kebab skewers and one of those unsanitary-looking revolving joints of un-named meat - and there was no case to answer. Lord Vetinari and Commander Vimes both agreed to this School accepting you as a pupil, and working to guide your steps and refine your promise." _Nobody wants an eleven-year old killer walking the streets unsupervised, she thought, even if his reasons for killing were good and pressing ones. Far better _**we**_ get him and teach him to use it properly. _"And you're in my class because of the defence you put up at the trial. Remember your own words? _Them peeps, they was tryin' to rob the shop, innit?"_

Joan winced.

"I can see a need for my intervention there! It isn't even the Ephebian of the great poet Homeboi, who wrote, about a visit to Ankh-Morpork, _kackiphloisbois thallassas, "The rolling sewage-coloured seas. _Well, my lad, it's time we did something about that _hoi-polloi_ accent of yours!"**(1)**

Finally, Joan spoke to the two Howondalandian boys, then chalked up a single massive letter on the blackboard.

"This elocution lesson is brought to you today by the letter "a"!" **(2)** she proclaimed. "It does appear to be one that's rather neglected in the Howondlalandian dialect, and I see it as my _positive_ duty to restore it to its rightful place in your vocal range. Let's get cracking, shall we?"

She chalked up

"_All authors are arrogant, and on average have an exaggerated assessment of their own ability"._

"You first, Mr Botha" she requested.

____________________________________-----

Joan's final job was supervising an after-school homework class for day pupils. _Well, so many of them, the charity cases, live in places like Dimwell, or Dolly Sisters, or even the Shades, _she thought. _Overcrowded slum houses, definitely not conducive to homework._

She was interrupted three times.

"Please, miss" said the messenger, a second year pupil. "Mr Mericet told me to take you this note".

"Thank you. You may go". She stemmed a few muted giggles with a meaningful glare. The note read

_Dear Joan. _

_I heard about the new accusations against you with some alarm. I remain sure they are utterly without foundation. If there is anything at all I can do to assist you to clear your name and reputation, please call for me. I will be waiting. _

_Yours ever_

_Humphrey._

She smiled. _Dear _Humphrey. As one of the very few privileged to know Mr Mericet's first name, she smiled and reflected on the circumstances in which she'd found it out. Just after her own graduation as a mature entrant to the Guild, there had been an official reception for the twenty-one out of thirty who had survived the course. Giddy with champagne and congratulations, she had found herself in earnest conversation with Mr Mericet, the normally dry, forbidding, Poisons master who had passed her from his class with 98%. He had blathered on for a while about how such an outstanding pupil occurs only once or twice in a teacher's career… in the circumstances, may I call you Joan? And I rarely tell anyone this, but my first name is Humphrey… Mericet had run a finger inside his collar for a few moments, looking ill-at-ease, and had then said: "Joan, would you do me the honour of letting me take you out for dinner one night?"

Flattered, and having thought her courting days were long over, Joan had said "Yes. Just once. Then we'll see how it goes?"

And later in the evening, the rumbustious Grune di Nivor had collared her, and after some blather about _the rest of you gels are young fillies and I'm far too old for them. Emmanuelle would, I fear, kill me, and then claim her own body as the inhumation weapon. Johanna is… well, a pretty little thing, but too young. And I fear Alice makes her own arrangements. Joan, could I take you to dinner sometime?"_

Doubly flattered, and with champagne having taken the place of caution, she'd also said "yes".

And to this day, di Nivor and Mericet existed in an icy state of extreme mutual politeness, all over her…

Emmanuelle, of course, had taken it as a huge joke, the hussy. But she'd still dated both, appreciating the old-time gentlemanliness, the exquisite meals, the witty dining partners, and male interest in her, at a time in her life when she'd resigned herself to spinsterhood. It was a whole new life.

T'Malia had not been amused, though, pointing out that she expected better, somehow, of her most mature teacher, "and if those two silly old men have a rush of blood to the head and end up duelling or something, I'll blame it on _you"._

Joan wasn't surprised when her next messenger was from Di Nivor.

There was more giggling in the class, which was swiftly stifled.

_Dearest Joan._

_If there's anything I can do, shout for me and I'll be here._

_Ever yours, _

_Grune._

She sighed.

And then the QCIC messenger arrived with the files.

"Miss Sanderson-Reeves? You are directed to read these. Please sign here."

She knew when she saw them. The investigation reports into the _new_ Marriage Guidance Counsellor. Well, she hadn't been forbidden to discuss them with a trusted friend. And she knew exactly _who_.

After dinner, where Joan had been squeezed onto the long table accommodating Black Widow House as a guest, she went to find that friend, noting that she was not alone.

Joan had responsibilities towards Day Pupils, but had been spared living in and managing a full House. Very slightly winded after negotiating all the stairs with a full load, she had said , on arriving, "They hide you away up here, don't they, m'dear!"

Alice Band was playing Assassins' Chess with a senior pupil. Sounds of splashing and low conversation came from the bathroom. The pupil chess player made to stand up when Joan came into the room, but Joan waved her back with "No, m'dear, let's be informal."

Alice nodded at Joan's burden.

"They're the case files?"

"Yes. I was rather hoping that you'd read them over for me. Second pair of eyes, and all that."

Alice nodded. "This is Hazel Pethley-Thomas. Head of Fourth Year and by default Head of House. She gets special privileges, like beating me at chess."

"Nonsense, Alice. You're a Grand Master!"

"My brother is a Grand Master. But he taught me and I can beat him two times out of five".

She moved a piece. The White Assassin entered the gaming area proper, poised for a lunge at the Black King.

"What have I said to you about hidden movement in the Slurks, Hazel? It can be lethal."

"Indeed, miss." Hazel moved her own Assassin, allowing it to reappear on the board to complete its contract.

"Black Assassin takes White Assassin. Threat to King removed, I believe."

Alice laughed, delightedly. There was movement and splashing from the bathroom, followed by water being drained.

"Ah. They're ready now. Shall we conclude quickly, Hazel?"

As the game finished, as a very narrow victory for White, a generously-built middle-aged woman in Guild servants' uniform ushered a washed and dressing-gowned girl out of the bathroom.

Joan recognised Rose Lympe-Sandgate, the girl she'd had occasion to chastise over personal hygiene. Rose, without prompting, extended ten very clean fingernails out to her Domestic Science teacher. The gesture was just on the right side of over-confident, but noticed by both teachers.

"Now you know the standard to keep to, m'dear, I'm sure you can contrive to stay there, hmmm?" Joan said, gently. The girl nodded.

"Thank you, Topsy." Alice said, whole-heartedly. "Some things work better if they don't come from a teacher!"

"I've got six myself, ma'am." replied Washable Topsy, the Guild laundress. "It's just a case of treating them as if they were one of your own and, you know, just showing them what needs to be done. Like you'd do with your own! Anyway, poor little mite. She's away from home for the first time and missing her family!"

"I'm grateful to you. I know I've kept you well past the end of your shift." Alice passed some coin over to Topsy. The laundress beamed. "Two dollars, miss? Most generous of you!"

Joan looked down at the poor little mite, who was at the beginning of a seven-year training course that could make her into a cold implacable killer, and smiled slightly at the incongruity.

"_Noblesse oblige_" said Alice. "Hazel, could you possibly take Rosemary back to the First Year dorm for me and see her into bed? If any of the other kids start making "smelly Rosie" remarks, refer them to me. And thank you for the chess game."

The three of them left. Joan waited a few moments before saying "Two dollars? She'd have been happy with fifty pence!"

"We're _Assassins_, Joan. We're _meant_ to tip extravagantly!"

Joan smiled.

"I'd never have thought of that, you know. Taking the soap-dodger and running her through your own bath! Get her up to the mark and show her what the standard is!"

Alice smiled.

"And you'll also notice I got chaperones round. It felt best! "

"Just so long as the grubby child didn't leave a tide-mark, of course". said Joan, thoughtfully.

Alice let it pass. "Now, all this stuff is to do with the naughty person out there who's taken your old trade name?"

"Yes, and it's damn confusing!"

"Well, let's see if two brains can't make more sense of it… there's some coffee in the scullery? "

**

* * *

**

**(1) **On Roundworld**, Homer, **of course**: **_**polyphloisbois thallasas**_**, **the ever-rolling wine-red sea of the Iliad. On Discworld, Homeboi's last poetic utterance was during a visit to the fabled lost valley of Loko: he was heard to call _**Pterodaktylos Eos! **_early one morning, just as he disappeared without trace. Critics dismiss this as a plagiarism of the rather opinonated lifestyle and political poetess Sappho, whose _Brodydaktylos Eos!, _when translated into Morporkian by Lady Alice Venturi, was the subject of an indecency action. Both Rosie and Dawn, when summoned to the witness box, avowed that it's no business of anybody but _them_ as to where they put their fingers, thank you very much!

**(2) **_Sesame Street, _of course. The show that convinced a generation of British pre-schoolers that the last letter of the alphabet is pronounced "zee". Hated by a generation of British reception school (first-grade) teachers for this reason.


	3. First Glimmerings

_**The MGC returns? C3**_

_**Disclaimer: **_before I get hate mail from South Africans offended at my comparison of the national cuisine to, well, _something else_, may I say I've tried biltong and it is actually quite tasty and more-ish. Thank you.

_**__________________________________----**_

Alice and Joan, fuelled by a lot of hot coffee, spent several hours sorting through the case histories. These now covered the table, most of the bed, a handy couch, and part of the floor. Having all the known facts at their disposal only added to their perplexity.

"I can't see anything that links _all_ these cases together, Joan!" Alice exclaimed. "The maddening thing is, whenever you think you've found a common feature, it only applies to four or five of the cases and not to the other three. And then you find a different common point that connects another different five, but not all eight, and which only overlaps three out of the first set of eight!"

She threw up her hands in frustrated near defeat. Joan sighed. "There's always going to be some uncertainty there, m'dear. Why else do you think they accused me of twenty-four, when I only scored eighteen? Which means six of them were done by somebody else, who by accident or design used an inhumation method that had enough common features with mine. Enough for the Watch and QCIC to suspect I did them, anyway."

She frowned in concentration. "I suspect this sort of investigation relies on putting together just enough pieces of the jigsaw to be able to see the general picture. And if some pieces slip in from a different jigsaw altogether, if they fit well enough, who's going to notice?"

Joan paused, and had a thought.

"Think of it as being like an archaeology dig, m'dear. Isn't it like what _you_ do when you've got a handle, part of the spout and a bit of the rim, but not the whole teapot by any means? You have to make intelligent guesses as to how much is missing and how the wretched teapot _might_ have looked, if all the bits were there."

Alice smiled.

"You're right, of course" she said. "It's just been a long day."

She bent her head over a page with hastily scribbled details on it. Joan was just about to suggest, out of deference to the time, that she left and took a cab home, when Alice sat very still looking at the page she was reading. Then she went back to the nearest file to consult something, And back to her page again.

_Is this what an archaeologist looks like when she's bagged a trophy?_ Joan thought. _She's quivering with excitement, like a hunting dragon that's caught a scent._

Joan waited, placidly, for Alice to speak. Eventually she said

"Look at this, Joan. The dates of the murders. The second one's a week or so out, but look! We're in March now. They begin in July last year. On the twenty-third. The next one is August the Twelfth, so it doesn't quite fit. But then we get September the twentieth. October the twenty-second. November the twenty-first. December the twenty-fourth. And so on down to February the twenty-first."** (1)**

Joan looked. It was true: seven of the eight murders had occurred within a day or two either side of the twenty-first of the month. She took a deep breath.

"Well, at least we've established that we're dealing with a woman here. That's one thing!"

Alice raised an eyebrow. Joan explained.

"Haven't you said it yourself, m'dear? That for a few days in every month_, every_ woman is a potential Assassin? That you could go out and inhume somebody, preferably male, just for the sheer bloody-minded joy of it, and the contract fee's a bonus for buying chocolate with? I've been there too, y'know!"

Alice laughed, delightedly.

"And let's face it, you _need_ to bring down a big fee to be able to afford Weinrich and Boettcher! "

She paused, and looked thoughtful. "I wonder if that's her motivation? We'll have to ask the Watch to put a gargoyle on Zephire Street, just overlooking the chocolate shop, and monitor who goes in and out."

Then Alice looked at the clock and said

"Oh hell. Is that the time?"

She slipped her feet into slippers, and said to Joan

"You're usually spared this, since you got Day Pupils. But the rules say I have to do a dorm check between eleven-thirty and midnight, just to count heads and make sure they're all there. You might need to do this yourself in the future, so why don't you come along? Oh, and soft shoes. Nothing that makes a noise, it's not fair to the ones who are asleep."

Joan and Alice made a discreet tour of inspection around the dorms, Joan in stockinged feet and Alice walking softly and cat-like.

"They tend to look really sweet and innocent when they're asleep, don't they?" Joan remarked. "Takes time to count 'em up, though."

"It'll get longer next year, when everyone steps up a form and we get a new batch of first-years." Alice said. "Right now, I just have to bear in mind that what with one thing or another, Tump House currently has a hundred and thirteen girls aged between eleven and fifteen. As long as the numbers tally, we're OK. You must know the usual sort of tricks they play? Some of them just don't stop and reflect on my having been to a boarding school myself. I've seen the dummy in the bed more times than I care to remember. But it's stopped now. Ever since I pinned a "_See Me!_" note to the dummy with a throwing knife. From the other end of the dorm. That sort of thing gets around! And I edificeer, of course. _Far_ better than they can! When one of mine tried climbing out of the window one night to go and see this boy from Viper House, they found me and Mr diNivor waiting for them on the roof!"

"Detentions all round, then." Joan said, cheerfully. They were standing in the corridor in between dorms, looking out over the city.

"You just have to be one step ahead, that's all."

"First thing you learn in teaching, m'dear." Joan remarked. "It confuses and worries them if they think you can see out of the back of your head."

Joan stayed over, Alice generously allowing her the bed while she curled up on the sofa. She went to sleep, thinking "They all happen in the same few days towards the end of the month. That has to be significant!"

And then the nagging thought at the back of her mind, like a hunting shark in a sea full of lesser predators, emerged.

"_Alice_!" she called, urgently. "Neither of us noticed! Tomorrow is the twentieth! She's just about to kill again!"

"Let me know when she does" Alice replied, sleepily. "We can talk to the Watch. Get to see the crime scene. Pick up what Assassins will notice and Watchmen don't. But I'm good for nothing if I can't sleep!"

Nothing happened the next day, the twentieth.

Well, to be scrupulously honest, many things happened that day. The Assassins' Guild School went about its scheduled daily routine. At morning assembly, Lord Downey made a point of telling the school that rumour-monging would not be tolerated. Any pupil found spreading malicious and unfounded tales about members of staff would be disciplined.

Joan winced. _An official denial. They'll believe it all the more now!_

Her first class went smoothly, although she fancied the pupils were looking at her with more than the usual wary respect.

With a growing and uneasy feeling the storm was about to break, she walked down to the Guild kitchens to see Chef about re-ordering materials for the Domestic Science unit. She felt at home in the maze of kitchens, store-rooms, butteries, cold-rooms and pattiseries: the Guild Chef viewed her as a professional equal among the teachers, and they would sometimes stop for a chat, if two busy schedules allowed for it.

She heard a familiar voice as she passed the smoke-house, and stopped to watch. Two smoking racks were being loaded with long strips of dark-brown meat. A couple of white-coated commis chefs were meekly cutting meat, eollong it in salt, and loading the racks, under the stern eye of Johanna Smith-Rhodes.

"Remember, this is _not_ to be cooked. " she said, crisply. "The purpose of henging the meat on the recks is to dry it end remove the liquid content. We are _curing_ the meat, so thet it is preserved end it mey be cerried by my students es en _eiserneportione, _the _iron ration_. Whet we are preparing here is basic unflavoured _biltong _jerky, which will be good enough for the students."

Johanna smiled.

"Hi, Joan! Does this offend your cook's delicecies?"

"Not at all, m'dear. You're taking a class out on a Wilderness Weekend soon, I expect?"

"In three weeks. Enough time for the biltong to dry!"

Joan smiled.

"Y'know, this puts me in mind of _bresaola_, the Brindisian way of preparing a ham. Do you people in Howondaland ever flavour your meat before you cure it, or do you always go hair-shirt like this?"

"Well, a clessic Howondalandian _biltong, _one I could eat, is first rolled in selt end merineded in vinegar end spices for a week or so, before it is hung and dried for a fortnight. You mey be sure I hev taught Gereth end Davie here how to do it _properly, _if you cen cell it_ properly, _out of the poor renge of meats you Morporkiens eat."

Johanna frowned, disapprovingly.

"I mean, Joan, you only hev _bee_f end _lemb_ end _pork_! I'm heving to mek do here with sirloin steak!"

"Yes, I can see that's going to be a damnable privation for you." Joan said, with poker-faced sincerity.

"Et home, we use _ostrich_. _Kudu_. _Bokkoms_. _Snoek_. _Springboek."_

Johanna's eyes misted over. Joan reflected that she'd seen similar looks on the faces of Dwarfs as they declared that the dwarf bread you get round here is OK, considering, but not a patch on the stuff you forge back home. A further slightly more wicked thought suggested to her that biltong was the human Howondalandian equivalent of dwarf bread: something you carried in your pack as an iron ration whilst hiking through inhospitable wilderness, and very diligently avoided eating, in the hope that something else was going to turn up. If it was amazing how far you could go with a loaf of dwarf bread in your pack, then Johanna's students were probably set to achieve prodigies with good Howondalandian biltong in theirs. Idly, she wondered if Howondalandian dwarfs squared the circle by making their biltong out of rat, and avoided eating it in the form of a jolly nourishing sandwich. And what sort of animal was a _snoek_, anyway? Or a _kudu_? **(2)**

"A _stokkie_ of biltong may dry like rock end look like a brick, but it reconstitutes well when soaked in water." Johanna explained. "It also cerries light. I'm taking forty first-year girls out for three days, end I went them to hev no illusions ebout living in the wilds. So they get plain dried biltong with perheps a little smoking for flavour, if they ere lucky! You know we cennot take first-year pupils out in winter. Lord Downey insisted. We hev to make the most of spring end summer, so they get a gentle introduction to wilderness survivel. It does _not_ mean they hev to eat like gourmets."

"Are you taking any Selachiis with you?" Joan asked, thoughtfully.

"But of _course_!" Johanna said, as behind her Davie the cook's shoulders started to shake with suppressed proletarian mirth. "End Rusts. End Eorles. End Venturis. Perhaps I cen ecquaint Miss Eorle with a mountain lion. I hear they persist in the hills Hubwise of here. Joan, it's good for their _souls_!"

"But not for their bellies"

"Biltong is _perfectly_ nutritious. Thet, and whetever we cetch on the trail!"

Johanna smiled at the two young trainee chefs.

"Cerry on without me for a moment or two, please. Thenk you." She walked into the corridor with Joan.

"Do you need eny help right now?" she asked, concerned. "I know you end Ellice spent a long time lest night looking over those case files. I _know_ it's not you, end it's a bleddy demned cheek somebody's stolen your name!"

"All the stuff's in Alice's rooms still." Joan said. "Pop up and have a discreet read. Maybe you can spot something we haven't. But Johanna, we're sure she's going to kill again soon! That's when I'm likely to need people I can trust. To help lead her into a trap and bring her in. Downey wants her _alive_, which goes against my better instincts."

"Just _esk_, Joan. I'll be there!"

"I _know_ you will, m'dear. Thank you."

Johanna smiled, embarrassed.

"You were very good to me when I first arrived in this city end needed friends. I don't forget."

After a quiet moment and an exchange of smiles, Johanna said

"I'd better cerry on supervising those two boys. Oh, they're not trouble, Chef told them to behave, end I've promised them an extra dollar each for helping. But young boys…"

"Tell me about it. We teach them."

They laughed., and parted. Joan walked away, wondering _Are there any Dwarfs in Howondaland? I've never thought to ask before. Funny where an idle thought leads you. Must ask Johanna. __**(3)**_

Joan spent a free period that afternoon in conference with Alice and Johanna, studying and re-studying the case files.

_There must be something else here! _she raged to herself, comparing the Scene of Crime iconographs taken by the very clever Watch forensic alchemist, Cheery Littlebottom. But these only covered the later deaths in great detail: the earlier photos had been taken by rank-and-file Watchmen who had not thought it worthwhile to call her out for what they'd then taken to be a one-off killing. Consequently, they lacked detail and precision, and in one case, had Corporal Nobbs gurning into the camera. _Or maybe that was just his normal face, it was hard to tell._

But there was something there, some common element, if only she could identify it.

Meticulously, she started writing lists of what was common to all the murder scenes.

_They say this is ninety percent of police craft, _she thought_. The long meticuluous plodding slog, looking and re-looking at all the small details. No wonder they're called "plods". _

____________________________________----_

It was at about six the next morning that the storm broke. Joan had gone home for a freshen-up and to pack an overnight bag, and had again stayed over at Alice's. This time, she got the couch and Alice the bed.

"They'll be spreading rumours about _us_ next, m'dear." Joan said, before drifting off to sleep.

"You know I've _always_ fancied you, Joan. I'm just too tired tonight. Now go to sleep." Alice replied, absolutely deadpan. Joan laughed appreciatively, and sleep overtook them both.

A thunderous knocking on the door awoke them.

"Miss Sanderson-Reeves? The Porters' Lodge advised me they thought you were staying at Miss Band's. I apologise for the intrusion, but this is Mr Brown from QCIC. You're needed. There's been another murder."

Joan opened the door to him, harbouring a thought the male Assassin was dissapointed to see they'd clearly been sleeping in seperate beds. _Alice attracts her own rumours. Can't help that, and it's no skin off my nose. _

"Then give us ten minutes to wash and get dressed and we'll be right with you. _Both_ of us."

___________________________________________________________________-----

**(1) **Yes, I _know _the Discworld has its own months. But frankly, the business of thinking in terms of Hubwise, Rimwards, Turnwise and Widdershins does my head in. So I'm sticking with Roundworld names for months, thank you. After all, Middle Earth had its own names for months, but Tolkein stuck with January, February, March to keep it simple. So if it's good enough for him...

**(2) **OK then**. Snoek **and** Bokkums **are types of fish**. Kudu **is a type of venison.

**(3) **In fact, there are. When significant gold and diamond deposits were first found in Howondaland, the Staadt realised it needed to import expertise to run its mines. Within a fortnight, the first shipload of Dwarf immigrants had arrived, as if steered by a magnetic attraction, if gold could be said to have its own magnetic field.**(4)** There are also the erroneously named Bushmen, a sort of very short presumed human being living in the Stone Age still, who live in shallow tunnels under the savannah. Dwarf anthropologists are _very_ excited by them, as they are with the "pygmies" of the jungle.

**(4) **It does for Dwarves, believe me.


	4. A lockedroom mystery?

_**The MGC returns? C4. Revised to take account of "beta-reading" and good criticisms**_

Alice and Joan swiftly washed, armed, and dressed themselves**(1), **then nodded at Mr Brown on their way down to the waiting coach. Brown did attempt to say "I'm _sure_ the QCIC invitation only applied to Miss Sanderson-Reeves…" before mumbling into silence on seeing the look on Alice's face.

Joan cheerfully said "She's with _me,_ Mr Brown. No objections? Jolly good. Driver, bash on!" Joan thumped on the back of the cab, and the coach, to all intents and purposes an unremarkable Ankh-Morporkian sort of family runabout**(2)**, set off.

Mr Brown cleared his throat.

"At first sight, this murder might not appear to have very much in common with the previous ones in the cycle. Nevertheless, we believe it to have been perpetrated by the same killer. Here, as you will see, an additional perplexing factor is "_how_?"

The coach turned into a heavily-guarded gateway, where two men, in appearance alike to Vimes' City Watch in that they wore the usual motley of _you-get-what-you're-issued,-and-if-it-fits-it's-a-bonus, OK?_ stepped forward to halt the vehicle.

"Please produce your Guild membership badges, ladies" Mr Brown requested, as the Guards-But-Not-Watchmen stepped forwards.

"Assassins Guild. Three to see Mr Bellamy. He's expecting us".

The Guard nodded and turned, giving an order. The portcullis in front of them lumbered upwards, its heavy downward-pointing weight propelled upwards by invisible trolls or golems working a winch. Alice and Joan now knew where they were. The Tanty, the City Prison.

Four forbidding walls of dark granite, punctuated by regular lines of small barred windows, stared down at them as they got out of the coach. While there were distant noises of clanking chains, doors swnging open on rusty hinges, and the occasional cough or barked command, the prison was eerily silent. The duty warder, who looked ill at ease, escorted them quickly into the prison's administrative offices. He knocked at a dark oak door. It carried a plaque bearing the words _**Prison Governor**_.

A voice – a female voice, Joan and Alice noted – said "Come!"

The door swung open. It revealed a large-built woman with a stern forbidding face, half-lens glasses pushed down her nose and secured with a lorgnette cord, who had black hair fading to grey around the temples. It was built up into swirling plaited cones over each ear. She gave the newcomers a disapproving look.

"Mr Brown, Miss Band and Miss Sanderson-Reeves from the Guild of Assassins, to see the Governor, ma'am!" reported the warder. She dismissed him with a nod; Joan reflected that he left a fraction faster than was necessary.

"Governor Wilkinson is a very busy man!" she declared. "Especially after this morning's _irregularity_!" She shook her head in irritation at _irregularities_. "It's got in the way of routine, for one thing, and it's generating a unwarranted amount of paperwork for _everybody_!"

"We are, in fact, here about the irregularity, Miss Maccalariat!" Joan said, placatingly. "The sooner we're done, the sooner routine here can return to normal!"

The woman considered this, and nodded. She appraised Joan, as if she was one in a million women who could come near to being the professional equivalent of a Maccalariat, and her manner smoothly adjusted.

"I understand that. My name is Amorina Maccalariat.**(3)** Personal Assistant to the Governor, by the way. Working in a prison is a challenge, compared to the Post Office job I hope will be open to me soon! But we all have to expand our professional horizons now and again. Lord Vetinari was _most _sympathetic in finding us all suitable temporary jobs in Government service, until the happy day dawns when Mr von Lipwig can allow me a Post Office branch of my own!"

Joan nodded, and smiled slightly. She had heard that the liberal inclinations of the current Governor and his constant lobbying for prison to be a place of _reform _and _rehabilitation_ as well as _punishment _had made him an irritation to the Patrician. Giving him a Maccalariat was evidently Vetinari's reply.

Anyway, the latest terror to criminals and deterrent to anybody pursuing a life of crime (or at least getting caught) led the three Assassins to an inner office, where the Governor was passing the time of day with Commander Vimes of the Watch and Mr Drumknott from the Palace.

"The delegation from the Assassins' Guild, sir." she said. "By the way, you so far have a quiet morning. Three discharge interviews are set up, but only one prisoner wishes to bring you a grievance."

"Can't think why!" Vimes muttered, cheerfully. "It used to be six or seven a day, didn't it, Sir Martin?"

"Thank you, Miss Maccalariat," the Governor**(4)** said, weakly. That will be all!"

Joan exchanged a guarded nod with Vimes, knowing full well she had once come within a hairsbreadth of being hung at the Tanty. By his investigation. An uncharacteristically paranoid part of her, honed by life at the Guild, surfaced with "_Maybe all this has been just a subtle plot to get me here so they could enact the death sentence". _Telling herself not to be so wet, she asked:

"It seems a little bit strange to be dealing with a murder _inside_ a prison. I'm assuming Miss Band and myself will be allowed to see the scene of the crime?"

"When Sergeant Littlebottom's finished in making her own initial scene-of-crime, yes!" Vimes said, curtly. "Don't worry, she knows not to disturb the scene for you people to look at."

Sir Martin Wilkinson, Governor of the Tanty, reached for his Dried Frog Pills with an unsteady hand.

"Well, actually" he said, taking an indiscriminate handful, "I've got my officers supervising the slopping-out of cells right now. After the prisoners have had breakfast, I'm putting them on lock-down until you people have done what you have to, and the body has been removed."

There was a knock at the door.

"Enter!"

A senior prison officer entered. Looking at him, Joan assessed that his state of personal presentation was a jolly sight better than most. Well scrubbed, uniform clean and pressed, armour and helmet brightly polished, he was an alert, good-looking chap in his middle thirties. Joan immediately approved of him.

"This is Mr Bellamy, one of my senior officers. He'll escort you to the murder scene."

"Follow me, ladies. I advise you not to linger, as we'll be walking through the maximum security wing. It's an experience you may not find pleasant".

"Do murders happen often in prison, Mr Bellamy?" Alice asked.

The officer considered before replying. As they walked down a gloomy unwindowed stone corridor, he said

"Well, the strange thing is, people on the outside think that just because we're dealing with a community of criminals and the lawless, things like this happen inside _all the time_. I'd personally be prepared to lay bets that in its way, within these walls we've got possibly the most law-abiding community in the City. Relatively trivial crimes like theft _do_ happen among the prisoners; but not very often, and they're usually carried out by newly-arrived inmates who don't know the Code yet. After a thief has been caught and had his fingers crushed by a slamming cell door – we employ an Igor in the infirmary, these days, by the way – the rest get the idea and refrain. I believe the criminals have their own Code of Conduct, and because it's _their_ law, one they agree on and choose to live by, it makes for a remarkably trouble-free environment.

"Oh, there's still an element of bullying – weaker prisoners can be exploited by stronger ones – and as in every prison, the _nonces,_ that is, sex offenders, police informers, and any Watchmen or prison guards who fall from grace and break the law, are utterly loathed and outside the Code. Unfortunately, my predecessor in office, Mr Bellyster, is currently serving a sentence here for negligence and for aiding and abetting an escape."

In response to an unanswered question, Mr Bellamy shook his head slightly and said

"Twenty-three. It causes us a lot of extra work, to be honest, as Mr Bellyster didn't exactly go out of his way to win the sympathy of the prisoners. Now they're all out to get _him_. It's understandable, really, but we're still hoping the Patrician will consent to his serving the balance of his sentence somewhere else."

He paused, then said in a low concerned voice: "Apart from er, _nonces_, which when they happen are termed _suicides_ by the Watch, actual random motiveless murder, as such, very rarely happens in prison. When it does, it tends to unsettle the prisoners and it makes management difficult. Everyone gets paranoid and wonders if they're next. If you can resolve this, you're doing us all a favour."

They arrived at a locked and barred metal gate, where a warden stood forward and conferred with Bellamy in a low voice. Bellamy shook his head.

"No, Not a good idea. These ladies are from the Assassins' Guild, so can we take it as _very possibly yes_, they _are_ carrying weapons? No point in searching them, or insulting them by asking them to give up their weapons, especially as I'm _sure _they'll give their word of honour not to use them. Ladies?"

"I don't see anybody on a contract!" said Joan.

"Right of self-defence excluded, of course!" said Alice.

Bellamy nodded. Joan felt herself liking him more.

"Now we've sorted that out, ladies, I should warn you that the murder site is at the end of this corridor. To get there you have to pass a lot of lifers with nothing to lose. Some people might find it intimidating."

She noted Bellamy had loosened his truncheon in its sheath. He nodded to the gate guard, then they were through. A barrage of noise, jeering, and barracking met them as they passed through. Solid black-painted cell doors were to the left and right of them, punctuating the plastered and whitewashed corridor wall. Each door had a single barred window at roughly face-height. While Joan and Alice were looking resolutely ahead, it was obvious to them that there was a prisoner hanging into each window, watching, hungry-eyed, devouring, as the two women walked past.

Joan nudged Mr Bellamy.

"Why is that door over there painted red when all the rest are black?"

The warder's eyes narrowed.

"Mr Jagger. A long-term lifer. He claimed, and got, special privileges. Don't you worry, ma'am, the moment he goes, that door gets painted black!"**(5)**

Alice wanted to hurry things along: she didn't class herself as psychic by any means, but she sensed a certain kind of_ darkness_ in the men staring hungrily at them. She also didn't like some of the remarks that were being shouted, and her fingers itched.

"Here we are, ladies"

They turned a corner.

Corporal Nobby Nobbs of the Watch leapt from full-slouch to near-attention as they approached, hurriedly concealing a dog-end behind his ear. A voice from an adjacent cell indignantly called

"'Ere! Nobby! You said I could have second divs on that smoke!"

"_Shutupshutupshutupshutup_!" Nobby hissed.

"Ready for you now, sirs, ma'ams!"

"Stand at ease, Corporal" said Bellamy, affably. Joan dug up from a long-ago memory that a senior prison officer's rank was roughly equivalent to that of a Watch senior sergeant's. _There's talk of the Prison Service being absorbed into the Watch and given to Vimes, _she thought. _Honourable retirement for Sir Martin, and the Mr Bellamys are given the authority they deserve. Damn good idea. _

"Oh, and give Prisoner Glenister that cigarette. The one I haven't seen."

"You're a toff, Mr Bellamy!" said the unseen voice, whose hand fluttered out of the cell door's window.

"And di you…er… you know?" Nobby asked Bellamy. The prison officer sighed and handed over a pass. Joan craned her neck and read it. It was dated for today, signed by Bellamy, and the text read:-

**I confirm the holder of this permit, Corporal C St. J Wormsborough Nobbs, is categorically ****not**** a prisoner attempting to escape. He is in fact visiting the Tanty legitimately, and is free to come and go at any time, at the discretion of his Commanding Officer. **

She smiled. Some things did not change, then.

Bellamy coughed, to attract attention.

"The prisoner assigned to this cell was booked in yesterday at five pm, and was in good health when checked at lights out. But was found dead at first check, at six this morning. "

Joan raised a hand.

"Nothing more, please. At least, not yet. I want to form a completely free impression before asking for specifics."

Bellamy knocked. A voice said "I'm just about finished now. You may enter".

The door creaked open. Joan and Alice took in the scene. Bare walls, plastered and whitewashed. The usual prisoner graffiti and score-tallying. A barred window, two thirds of the way up the wall, otherwise open to the sky. A stool. A bare wooden table, where there was a tray and the remains of a meal. A bare stone floor, with fragments of the prisoner's bedding strewn on it. She forced herself to look over. The bed was nothing more than a shallow wooden box on four legs, with the standard office beneath it. As far as she could tell, the box was designed to accommodate a layer of straw, no more than two or three inches deep, that the prisoner slept on.

And the prisoner herself. Mouth open in a final rictus, the skin of her face and throat having gone a distinct blue-green colour, the aspect of one fighting for a last breath that would never come. Ever though rigor mortis and gravity had pooled the blood in the lower part of her body, leaving the upper part un-naturally pallid, there was no doubt that death had come reasonably quickly, if not easily.

Joan blinked.

_The prisoner herself?_

"Mr Brown, this is a woman."

"Well spotted!" said the QCIC Assassin. "I can see your forensic skills are going to be of considerable help in this investigation".

Joan bit back an acid retort.

"By that, I mean that we are looking for a female serial killer who _only _targets _men_. Surely the fact that the victim in this case is a woman means we're wasting our time and resources with this one? The whole modus operandum of the Marriage Guidance Counsellor was to defend women and children by killing predatory, abusive and violent males! _I should know_! Anyone who has adopted that persona from the original MCG will no doubt be following in her footsteps by targeting men only!"

"Miss Sanderson-Reeves? " said a small, anxious, diffident voice. "I was ordered to give you every assistance on this investigation. Can I fill you in as to _why_ this woman was arrested yesterday? She was taken to a remand cell at the Tanty only because Watch accommodation was full up."

Joan looked down into a small, worried, bearded face.

"Sergeant Littlebottom, isn't it? I've heard some jolly good things said about you. Okay, please tell me."

Cheery explained: that Volentia Gregoric had been a nursery nurse who had gone to the bad, and at the instigation of a male who was also in Watch custody, she had taken indecent and progressively more disgusting iconographs of children in her care, using bribes and threats to ensure their compliance. It was believed they made an illicit living selling the pictures on to fellow "collectors", and the Watch, along with investigators from the Seamstresses' Guild, **(6) **was even now chasing them down.

"The ironic thing was, the Agony Aunts thought at first it was a case of a man getting Guild members to pose for, er, "_artistic iconographs_". Which is allowed, as part of the normal range of commercial transactions possible between a Seamstress and her client. The usual arrangement is that any iconographs are, er, _for personal use only. _However, if the iconographs are copied and resold, the Guild gets a percentage of the resale fee. The Aunts thought he was selling pictures on without paying a Guild copyright fee, so they went to him and had a quiet word, as they do. They of course confiscated the iconograph machines and a bag of completed prints. Then when they took a look at the sort of pictures they'd been used to take… well, they called the Watch."

"And this man. He's safe and well?"

"Igor patched him up, to a point where he can stand trial. He's in a secure Watch cell at Cable Street and still breathing. He's under a doubled guard, now his accomplice has been found dead!"

Joan nodded.

"But this disgusting specimen here. She's dead. While I concede the world is marginally cleaner for that, and nobody's going to cry much over her, _somebody_ killed her."

"And how did they kill her?" mused Alice. "And how did they get it into prison?"

"Well, what I see is consistent with poison, orally administered, acting on the respiratory system." said Joan. "Prussic Acid, cyanides, have this effect."

While they spoke, the Watch Igor and several Watchmen arrived with a covereable gurney to collect the body.

"She's going to the Watch mortuary now and then to post-mortem" said Cheery. "Post-mortem is Igor's department. Do you want to be present?"

Joan watched the corpse transferred to the gurney. She sighed.

"I think I'd better be," she said. "I want a damn good look at those lungs and throat for a kick-off. Then to check the blood for signs of cyanides. High levels of blood cyanohaemoglobin is _the _proof of cynanosis. As an insurance, we'd better collect together what's left of the bread and food and water here and test _that _for common poisons."

Joan felt her head furiously buzzing with ideas.

"Mr Bellamy, I need to go into who would have been in this cell prior to the client arriving. After the client arrived, who booked her in? Who delivered her? Who had cause to visit this cell? Did she leave it for any reason? What city street does that window open onto? Did she have any links with vampires and banshees? After all, both species have been used to inhume before. And is there any possibility it could have been suicide or even misadventure? We need to rule those out before we go galloping to conclusions."

"Er…. With a need for high security and surveillance of this prisoner, we did have a Gargoyle officer on the wall outside this window all night. She reports hearing nothing untoward inside the cell, and no intrusion from outside it." Mr Bellamy reported.

Joan nodded. Many City institutions employed Gargoyles for exterior security. It made sense.

"We'll have to sit down and go through the rest, Mr Bellamy. I want to leave no stone unturned."

"I gave a full report and personal statement to the Watch. Perhaps we could review that and if there are any gaps, we could fill them?" Mr Bellamy asked. Joan nodded.

Meanwhile, as the body was taken from the cell and the noise in the corridor faltered, as the other prisoners realised that random death in the night might happen to them too, Alice leant over the rough bedding, pressed down as it had been by the weight of the sleeping, now dead, woman. It looked like ordinary straw, dried summer hay. Some of it had gone to flowering heads. Alice recognised the corn-like grass seeds, and ignored them. She also noted the hay appeared to have been gathered in a summer field somewhere, perhaps farmland outside the City. There were occasional dried and preserved flower heads in there, as well as other plants she couldn't identify. But something didn't feel right.

She called Cheery over, who took a look at the plant matter with her.

"The problem is, I grew up two miles underground where there aren't many flowering plants. So I don't know whether this is common or not, to tell you the truth. But these little dark blue flowers do look fresher and newer than the rest, now you come to mention it."

"I grew up in the countryside near Quirm. But even so, I never paid it too much attention, either. I could tell you which mushrooms are safe to harvest and eat, and which are best eaten by _other_ people after you've harvested them with care, and a few plants that become more edible after a week in the wilderness, but that's it."

"We really, really, need a botanist on the strength." Cheery said.

"I think I might know somebody who could help" Joan said. "If you've got any sample bags spare, fill them up. Oh – and use gloves, girls? Don't contaminate the evidence! Sergeant Littlebottom, could you call in at the Guild for half an hour or so? The man I've got in mind might be useful here!"

* * *

Joan, Alice, and a very nervous Cheery, paused outside Mr Mericet's Poisons lab.

"Enter!"

"Ah, you're taking a class, Mr Mericet. Should we call back later?" Joan said, diffidently.

He smiled, seemingly genuinely happy. Although, as Alice reflected, it was hard to tell.

"No, these are upper-sixth formers, Miss Sanderson-Reeves. Advanced students. They can be trusted to get on with it."

Mr Mericet led them into a private ante-room behind the main classroom.

"Humphrey, I'm so very pleased you offered me your help in a current dilemma!" she said. Alice made herself look out of the window in studied poker-faced abstraction. _Humphrey! _

She quickly explained the situation.

"And you're far and away the most expert authority I know on plant-derived poisons. I was wondering if you could be of assistance and identify the plants in this sample bag? It may be the case that none are poisonous and I'm barking up the wrong tree. But at least with your expert help we'll have eliminated a line of enquiry. And I'd be _so_ grateful to you!"

Flattered, Mericet said he'd do what he could, Joan. He then shook the hand of the "redoubtable Sergeant Littlebottom. I've heard so much about your skill as an alchemist. It's a _pleasure_ to assist the Watch in their inquiries, ha ha.."

He then took the samples out into the big lab, to begin a series of analyses. The connecting door closed behind him.

"_Humphrey_?" Alice asked, pointedly, still slightly off-balance at seeing Joan playing easy to get. "And _coquettish_ doesn't suit you! Nor does that _I'm just a silly little girlie who doesn't know about these things, so can the big clever man help me _act!"

"I trained with Emmanuelle, m'dear, and so did you, remember. Her approach to life has some good lessons for us all!"

Alice sighed. Emmanuelle Lapoignard Les Deux-Epees's ability to twist men around her little finger, or indeed other interestingly formed parts of her anatomy, was _legendary._ She changed the topic.

"Did you get a copy of the Watch statement on Bellamy?" Alice asked.

"Got it here. What did you make of him?"

"Certainly good at his job. Not lenient to the prisoners, but fair and consistent. He certainly has their respect, and that must go a long way!"

"So we can rule him out as the killer, then. According to his word, supported by checking prison records and interviewing others for confirmation, that cell sat empty for a week prior to the Gregoric woman being admitted. Bellamy says he personally supervised two women prisoners in filling a sack with bedding and taking it to the cell. The only interruption was when Bellamy's wife called by to deliver his evening meal, that she'd prepared herself. As she's known and trusted by the staff, and also the cons know she's the wife of a respected officer, she was allowed to make her own way to the feed and bedding stores to take his evening sandwiches there. But at no point did she go near the cell or the prisoner. So discount Mrs Bellamy, for now.

"The bedding was transferred to the cell under Bellamy's personal watch. The two prisoners carrying it were not allowed contact with the criminal and nothing other than the bedding material was left or changed hands. Bellamy, being an experienced officer, was looking for this. The cell was then locked and placed under strict security, with a warden on patrol outside and a gargoyle deployed to the window. Both of whom check out as straight.

"Food and water was likewise brought to the cell by another officer, also checking out as straight. It was promptly delivered and the door locked again. The prisoner was periodically observed to be alive and breathing up until lights-out. Nothing of report then happened until the body was discovered in the early hours of this morning."

"Bellamy's hiding something!" Alice mused. "He's not telling any lies, but he hasn't told all he knows, or suspects, either. No evidence, Joan. That's just a feeling. I'll sit on it, until it jogs any other thoughts".

Joan added "And the accomplice in Watch custody, who you would have thought was _also_ a prime target, remains untouched. Maybe the killer physically cannot get inside a Watch house."

"But _can _get inside the prison!" Alice completed. "Meaning he or she is either a prisoner or on the staff, possibly in collusion with person or persons inside. Somebody with freedom of movement to get around the building un-noticed or un-remarked. "

"Hmm. Maybe we should be looking at _trusties_. The prisoners who are entrusted with routine jobs, such as swabbing corridors, taking meal trollies to prisoners on lock-down or Death Row, the ones you see moving around the prison on various errands. At least two passed us, completely unremarked, when Bellamy was leading us to the cell."

Mericet reappeared, looking smug.

He carried a large volume , which contained artistic plates of _Common And Uncommon Toxic Plants Of The Central Continent And Discworld Temperate Zone. _

"Joan, I believe I've solved your problem." He said, opening up the book.

"The culprit is this little fellow here. The Flowering Prussic Blue, of Überwald. The dark Prussic Blue of the petals and stamen – and indeed of the pollen – is due to its high hydrocyanotic content. Mixed in with other plants in the straw given to prisoners to sleep on, it would go un-noticed and unremarked. But enough of the plant, near to the sleeper's face, would convey enough toxic pollen to bring about death by cyanosis. And the dead flowers would most likely be swept up and burnt, unremarked upon, with the old bedding, in the prison incinerator."

Mericet smiled, proud of himself.

Alice ventured a question.

"Does it grow locally, Mr Mericet, and therefore could its presence in straw be seen as accidental? Making this, possibly, a case of misadventure?"

Mericet shook his head.

"Hardly, Miss Band. It only grows naturally in Überwald, in mountain meadows over six thousand feet above sea level. Even there, it's viewed as a pest, as it can poison cows, horses and even goats grazing on it during the summer months. For such fresh blooms to be found in Ankh-Morpork - in _March - s_uggests it's been deliberately cultivated, in a greenhouse or other forced system. Normally, this plant flowers in May and June. The only possible conclusion is that it was _deliberately _introduced into the prisoner's bedding. A truly elegant and stylish amateur inhumation! I should like to meet this person, Joan, when you bring about her arrest. And…"

He paused, suddenly less sure of himself.

"Dinner, next Wednesday?"

"Always a delight, Humphrey!" Joan said, smiling. "And can Sergeant Littlebottom here take a scan of this page for her files? Thank you so much!"

"We _really_ need a botanist!" said Cheery. "I would have missed all that!"

* * *

**(1) **Note the Assassins' sense of priorities when getting ready to face the challenges of a new day. Which is _not_ to say that you can safely surprise a lady Assassin in her bath or at her toilette. They tend to get rather intense at uninvited intrusions on their privacy, and there is _always_ a weapon to hand to express dissatisfaction with.

**(2)** But should the Thieves' Guild have attempted to hijack it, hold it up, steal it or otherwise sought to inconvenience its owners, there were a lot of hidden features, such as concealed one-shot and other types of crossbow hidden in the superstructure, or a driver's seat that turned into an ejector seat if the wrong bottom sat on it, thus projecting the hijacker head-first into parabolic contact with the unyielding road surface.

**(3) Amorine **was the code-name for a halogen- based British nerve gas created at the ultra-secret Porton Down base. There is truly no shortage of appropriate first names for Maccalariats out there.

**(4) **Perhaps a note on terminology. In Great Britain, a prison is run by a State appointed_**Governor.**_ He then employs a staff of _**warders/wardens**_ who are the rank-and-file prison officers who run the place and see to discipline. This might cause a little confusion with accepted United States usage: where the _Warden_ is the _governor_ and employs prison officers and guards to do the _Shawshank Redemption_ or _Cool Hand Luke _casual brutality stuff. (Hmm. Ideas.)

**(5) **I know. It sneaked up on me as I typed. Irresistible. Down the hall there could have been a prisoner called Clapton, or perhaps Baker, behind a White Door in a White Room… or Inmate Stevens, S, contemplating a Green Door from the wrong side…

**(6) **Because of long-standing demarcation agreements, the Seamstresses' Guild had more practice in investigating the sort of cases that, in other jurisdictions, had to do with Vice. But with a declared City interest, it allowed the Watch to join in and add its expertise to the hunt.

There is a current rather stomach-turning law case in Britain (Oct 09) concerning nursery nurses who took photos of their charges for distribution through a paedophile ring. Anyone interested in background, Google on the nauseating case of "Vanessa George". I have used the bare bones of the case for convenience here.


	5. The language of flowers

_**The MGC returns? C5**_

Joan and Alice returned to the School, later in the morning, to resume their normal duties as teachers. They had compared noted with Cheery Littlebottom, who was to return to the prison and check the bedding store, so as to sample the stock for the presence of the deadly Prussian Blue meadowflower. If it were present in recently arrived batches, then it became more likely that the death was misadventure. If none were to be found in the stores, then the strong probability, in fact the expected outcome, was that a small amount had been deliberately introduced with the intention of murder. Cheery was also to ensure the bedding in the death cell was safely collected for further examination, as well as to act as murder evidence. _And it won't end up in any animal feed. If the body-wagon that conveys prisoners between the Tanty, Watch cells , the Patrician's Palace and the Gibbet suddenly stops in the street because the horses drawing it have died suddenly… and ye Gods, we _also_ have to rule out any plot to rescue criminals in transit, it would be so easy! As well as muddying our waters. For all we know, the Georgic woman may not have been the target at all, she could have been collateral damage in a plot to free a high-profile criminal. I'll get Cheery to run this past Bellamy. _

Cheery, who had been graciously allowed to take a Guild Student's Reading List away with her so as to persuade Vimes to buy her department the books**(1), **also promised to provide Joan with a copy of the post-mortem result.

Joan returned to her class to relieve the supply teacher. She paused at the door to listen. Emmanuelle Lapoignard Les Deux-Épées didn't normally cover cookery, as she was firmly of the opinion that the natural environment of her sort of Assassin was the City. If the Assassin was meant to live off the land, then _eh bien,_ the natural resources of the land included restaurants and easily harvested dinner invitations. She saw no difficulty with this. Wilderness Survival, to her, meant going undercover into proletarian areas and having to survive on takeaway food. As for the boring and unwelcoming green bits in between the cities that were not lit up at nights, all you needed was a comfortable fast coach and a luxury hamper combining the very best produce from several of the the upmarket food shops on the Maul. _Pas de problème, mes élèves! _

"This will not do, _mes élèves! " _Joan heard. "The simplest, the easiest, the most ridiculously easy, task in the cuisine is the preparation of a simple Quirmian omelette! How can you say you can cook the simple meal if you cannot do the simple omelette?I issue each of you with two eggs, a whisk and some basic seasonings, and it is the most simple task on this Disc!"

Joan relaxed. Emmanuelle was taking her cover duties seriously, then. And she was jolly right about omelettes! She walked in.

"A quiet morning, Madame Deux-Épées? Thank you _so_ much for covering my class!"

Emmanuelle smiled.

"A pleasure, miss Sanderson-Reeves! And most of the class are getting the idea. Let me show you. _Alors_, miss Stalybridge-Hyde here has not _quite_ got the hang of it."

The two teachers looked down at a roughly circular, dark brown object being presented by a downcast looking pupil. Joan sniffed.

"The object of the exercise is to prepare something you can _eat._ Although I concede that something you can repair the sole of your boot with might have its uses, this classroom does _**not**_ have "_Craftroom and Leatherworking Shop_" up over the door, does it? Or I'd have noticed!"

Joan maintained her glare for a second or two, then softened and said

"Go and get two more eggs, and we'll do it _properly _this time!"

__________________________________________-----

Alice Band was at her ease, halfway up a wall. She leant back on the ropes and surveyed her students, who were spread out both above and below her.

"_Put some effort into it, Mr Lavish, if you please!" _she called down. She also noticed Lavish, even at thirteen, was a bit on the _tubby_ side, one of the many family failings. _You can't edificeer if you carry surplus weight, _she thought. _Perhaps bump him up a class or two, and send him out on the next Wilderness Survival course. Three or four days of being chased by Johanna on minimal rations should lose a few pounds and trim him down. If not, I'll have to talk to Baron Striefenkanen and tell him there's a problem. Put Lavish on special measures for a month or two. Reduced diet, house arrest except when escorted, and absolutely no tuck. He stuffs his face like you wouldn't believe. Sweets and chocolate. Nice in moderation, but fatal for the active Assassin. _She reflected on the half-pound of Weinrich and Boettchers' best assortment, that a grateful parent had given her, and which was sitting untouched, by effort of will, in her desk drawer.

_A fat Assassin is also bad for the image. Then again, Bunter of Pernypopax House managed it in the end. His first successful inhumations on graduating were the fellow pupils who'd made the fat boy's life Hell. Cherry, Wharton, Singh….__ **(2)**__It does help if your father is a leading industrial chemist, though._

She watched Lavish lumbering slowly up the wall, his breathing laboured.

_Special Measures means getting Downey's personal approval, as it could be otherwise described as cruel and un-natural punishment. As if getting a frankly fat and unfit pupil up to the mark, quickly, could be called cruel! But I'll let Johanna have a crack at him first. She usually has a pretty direct way when she gets them up in the hills. _

She nursed her class to the top of the wall, with a combination of encouragement and veiled threats. On the roof, they waited in silence for a panting Lavish to lumber up and over the parapet. She clicked her stopwatch off, noted the time, and said

"Mr Lavish, the accepted time for a student to climb this wall, carefully and without haste or over-confidence, is one minute and thirty-two seconds. You managed it in two minutes and fifty-three seconds. This is simply not good enough. I propose to speak to other members of the teaching staff, and to your housemaster Baron Striefenkanen, concerning measures that are open to us to improve your performance."

She turned to the rest of the class.

"As Mr Lavish here has dragged the class average for this wall down to one minute and fifty-nine seconds, we will _all _abseil down to ground level and do it all over again, until I am satisfied!"

There was the expected chorus of groans and dismay. Alice started chivvying the class back to the parapet and went down the line, ensuring their ropes were correct. She then took her place and called "GO!" watching them swing out into space. No hesitation; that was good. Even Lavish went, presumably because descents were always easier, in terms of exertion and effort. She leapt over the wall and followed, descending as quickly as safety allowed, only kicking out at the wall twice, relishing the dizzying speed of practice and experience, managing to be on the ground before any pupils. She then watched them in.

"Keep moving!" she called, as a steady cold drizzle began falling. She added the age-old lie of the PE teacher, for emphasis:-

"A little rain never hurt anybody!"**(3)**

She was, however, honest enough to cross her fingers as she said it.

Alice Band, in her way, was a happy woman who derived an intangible sense of satisfaction from her vocation.

**__________________________________________---**

As Joan was wrapping up omelette-making, and Alice was considering bringing the edificeering lesson to a wrap, elsewhere in the City, the killer was going about her business. Like Alice, she was happy and well-adjusted in her day job, and had, indeed, made quite a few legitimate sales that day to satisfied customers.

At this moment, she was weighing up the woman sitting opposite her, with the sad, dark-rimmed teary eyes and the very obvious bruises. The one who had just whispered "Mavis Robinson mentioned to me that you might be able to help…" and left the rest of the statement in the air. She had switched the sign on the door to "CLOSED", locked up, and had made a pot of tea for two. Discreet probing had satisfied her that this was a legitimate candidate for her services. Although she recalled from her research that the original Marriage Guidance Counsellor had very nearly fallen prey to a Watch sting, involving an undercover Watchwoman with very realistic fake bruises. _I'll have to be very careful of that from now on, now the story's out and they've christened me after the MGC. Still, there are only three human or human-seeming women in the Watch, and I know all their faces. _

"I should be in a position to assist" she assured her latest customer. "Just tell me a few details about the gentleman in question and I'll organise a, er, _delivery_. You are clear on the other detail? Two thousand now, another two thousand on completion?"

The customer wordlessly deposited a bundle of notes on the table. The killer nodded in appreciation.

_This can go to Simon's college endowment fund at the Royal Bank. I must be careful to bank it before the twenty-eighth, or it's going to lose a month's interest. _

She listened, prompting with a little question occasionally, and smiled.

"There should be no problems, Mrs Rutherton. Completion, I think, within two days. Leave it to me!"

She saw her special customer out, and rest the door-sign to _OPEN_. Then she breathed heavily and tried to suppress the panic feeling inside her. _Sooner or later I'll be caught. And what happens to Pete and the boys then? _She fought down the fear. What she was doing was worthwhile. Socially necessary. She was convinced of it. _Yesterday was a big risk. When Peter came home from work he looked strangely at me. He didn't accuse. He said nothing. But what does he suspect? _

She had heard that hard work is a sovereign remedy for care: she took up a broom and started clearing up the shop and workroom floors. Tuesdays were good for _special_ clients as she worked alone then. The downside was that Tracey, the shop junior, wasn't here to do the sweeping and tidying. And in this trade, there was a lot of it. _Floors don't sweep themselves, _she reminded herself, and set to it.

_________________________------

Later in the day, Joan and Cheery met up at the Tanty to discuss the day and compare notes. Cheery confirmed that there had been absolutely no trace of the deadly flowers in the bedding store. Which suggested that the fatal batch had been contaminated at some point during its journey to the dead woman's cell. Which in turn pointed to murder.

"The bedding from the cell is in the evidence room at Pseudopolis Yard, bagged, tagged and secure."

"Good!" said Joan, "Now let's do the other thing. We could be at it for some time, I'm afraid!"

This involved sweet-talking Amorine Maccalariat. Having an idea of which buttons to press, Joan emphasised the urgency of the task, so as to prevent any further _irregularities_ spoiling the smooth and tidy running of the prison. (Even though she and Cheery were both fairly certain there'd be no more).

She followed it through with sympathetic concern.

"It must be _difficult_, to be one of only a few women working in a place like this?"

"Oh, it's not so bad! The staff, and most certainly the inmates, treat me with the _greatest_ of respect. I _insist_ on it, and of course, there are the female officers who work in the Women's Prison. I was rather dubious about taking this position at first, but I'm bound to say I'm coming to quite like it. You say you need to look at the staff files, Sergeant, Miss Sanderson-Reeves? Come this way, please!"

Joan and Cheery spent a couple of hours reading staff files and profiles, looking for any hint that one of them might have been corrupted or compromised by outside influences. But there was nothing of obvious interest there, and they were just about wrapping up when Miss Maccalariat signalled that she wanted to close the office and leave for the day.

Joan straightened her back and sighed.

"I do like the flowers, miss Maccalariat. A nice touch in an office like this!"

"A reminder that there's a real world out there that doesn't have inch-thick steel bars on every window!" she agreed. "I couldn't do without them, to be honest. It's all thanks to Davinia. Lovely girl, married to one of the officers, runs her own floristry business down on Pelicool. She makes sure the offices and public areas get fresh flowers every week, to brighten and civilise the place. She even used to run a flower-arranging class for the lady prisoners… well, I say the ladies, but _Gorgeous George_ used to attend as well, but everyone here knows George. He used to go to the dressmaking classes as well, the one Mrs Battye or one of her ladies give. Well, flower arranging for the lady prisoners was curtailed, I'm sorry to say, when it was realised they were using the vases to hide contraband. And one was used as a weapon in a fight between prisoners, which caused a lot of stitching work for Igor. Davinia allowed them to take the flowers home to brighten their cells afterwards, you see. We are hoping to resume flower-arranging for prisoners when we can get unbreakable vases in a totally clear material."

"So I see!" Joan said, wryly.

Miss Maccalariat said, with a smile,

"Punishment was minimal on that occasion. The Governor considered that for a woman, having her wounds stitched up by an Igor was punishment enough. But they lost the privilege of flower-arranging lessons! Shall we go?"

The three of them left the prison together, warders unlocking and locking gates as they left.

"Do you know, Miss Sanderson-Reeves, I have to compliment you on how well-behaved pupils at your school are. Assassins' School children are the best-behaved and most polite you see on the street! It must be a constant job for you to maintain those standards?"

"Well, a constant vigil, certainly But we find if you raise the bar high and tell 'em that's where you want to keep it, they tend to self-regulate and do the work themselves."

"They're a credit to you, an absolute credit! It's so good to meet other women who believe in maintaining _standards_!"

Joan smiled, aware of having made a useful ally.

Cheery exhaled, having spent a day in what to her were largely challenging and difficult environments. Joan looked at the dwarf with sympathy. _First the Tanty, then us, then the Tanty again. She needs a break. _

"Could this Assassin offer the Watch a complimentary cup of tea or coffee, m'dear? I promise you I won't put anything in it except coffee, milk and sugar!"

_____________________________------

Cheery sat in at the evening review with Alice of where they'd got to so far.

"It's a pity you didn't think to get the name of the officer's wife who runs the florists' shop." Alice said, thoughtfully.

"After all, we know the murder weapon was a naturally poisonous flower. And it's a rare one that doesn't grow within three hundred miles of here, and only then halfway up a mountain. So whoever chose it definitely knew their flowers!"

Cheery said, hesitantly,

"I asked around. The Prussic Blue is also known at home as…well, you've heard of _Edelweiss_? A nice inoffensive winter bloomer? This is _Edelschwarz. Edel mit Haltung, Edel mit Schwung. **(4) **_Edelweiss with attitude, basically. Most Überwaldeans know better than to try to cultivate it, and its flowers are too drab, almost black, to be of interest to growers in the Plains. Captain Carrot had a book in his room on common flowers and plants of Überwald, you see. Angua suggested he lent it to me."

"Somebody with a good knowledge of uncommon flowers, then." said Alice.

"And not the sort you'd usually put in a bouquet, then." agreed Joan. "But I agree we should identify this florist who's married to a prison officer. Pass the ruler over her, and see if she measures, or most likely doesn't, and needs to be eliminated from the inquiry. Damn and blast it, I should have asked Miss Maccalariat. What was the name? Deborah? No, Davinia, that was it!"

"Er…" said Cheery, diffidently. Alice and Joan looked at her.

"This might be something or nothing. But the staff files we looked at. We divided them into two stacks, remember, and one of mine was Mr Bellamy, the principal officer. I remember the family details. Three sons, ages between eight and thirteen. . Happy marriage for fourteen years. His wife was named as Mrs D. Bellamy. That slightly funny name again. Davinia. The file said she runs her own business, but didn't specify what. Sorry."

Alice and Joan looked at each other, then at Cheery, and then at each other again.

"Mrs Bellamy visited. And met her husband in the bedding store. Where she took him his lunch. And if she's a florist by trade…"

"Well, we know what _we're_ doing tomorrow, then!" Joan said, firmly. "I've got a sudden urge for flowers. They _do_ tend to brighten a place up, don't they, girls?"

Alice reached for the case files. "Do you remember we studied the scene-of-crime photographs looking for common elements? One of the things that was present in most of the photographs, that we just thought was coincidental because they're found almost everywhere and most homes tend to have them at one time or another? _Flowers_, Joan! Somewhere in the scene, there was a bunch of flowers !"

Joan took a deep excited breath.

"We may be getting somewhere or we may be getting nowhere. We need a strategy to make the best of it. Cheery, were the flowers kept from the earlier murders?"

The Dwarf's face fell and she muttered something spiky in Dwarvish.

"Don't worry m'dear. We can probably identify them from the photos, to see if we're barking up the wrong tree. And wre any cards or messages with the flowers kept? Well, that's _something_ we can use!But if there's a next killing , we need to keep the flowers, yes? Jolly good!"

And then the three of them put their heads together to work out a strategy for investigating the elusive Mrs Bellamy without alarming her. A woman who they were beginning to suspect knew how to say it with flowers. And the message, tey now suspected, was invariably "_**Drop Dead**_!"

* * *

**(1) Poisons, intermediate course: **_**Recognition and **__**Uses of the Dangerous Flora of the Sto Plains and Hubwise Central Continent. **_"The Assassin should not spurn the inhumation resources to be found nearest to hand, which a beneficial Mother Nature has placed all around us for our education and instruction, often indeed in the form of overlooked garden and hedgerow weeds."

**(2) **A homage to Frank Richards' novels of British boarding school life, which centred on the appalling fat boy Billy Bunter and his chums.

On the Discworld, the licenced Assassin William Bunter waited a few years, then invited his former classmates back to a "_no hard feelings even though you bullied and beasted me for seven long years_" get-together. At the same time, his father lodge contracts with the Guild so it wouldn't be murder. As Downey remarked afterwards, the fact that Wharton, Cherry, Nugent, Coker and Singh had sat down to eat with a fellow pupil, whom they had bullied and for whom they had made life a misery over seven long years, in the belief that all was forgotten and forgiven, in itself betrayed shocking levels of over-confidence. And on top of that, not taking into account that Bunter's speciality at school had been alchemy, nor that his father was a prominent and successful industrial chemist... Downey had sighed and been heard to remark that "Sometimes, just sometimes, we make an error in passing them, don't we!"

**(3) **Except in the lands immediately bordering the Great Nef, which as a result of a localised microclimate persisting after a millennia-over Mage War, suffered from _**seriously**_ acid rain. The local flora had learnt to adapt, and the few surly inhabitants made a comfortable living from collecting and refining the rain, in ceramic tanks, for use in the burgeoning chemical industry.

**(4)** Could a Uberwaldean speaker, such as cklammer or fledge, check the use of language here? I was going for a concept like "_deadly edelweiss_", _edel(black),_ or _Edelweiss with attitude_.


	6. Mr Bellamy reflects

_**The MGC returns? C6**_

Peter Bellamy came home from work to the usual joyous welcome from his three sons.

"Mother not in yet?" he asked, obediently raising his arms so that eight-year-old Tim could undo the ties of his front-and-back armour. He looked forward to relieving himself of the weight of it.

"She left a message to say she'd be late at the shop, dad." said thirteen-year-old Simon. "Apparently she's got a deadheading job to do."

Peter nodded. _Deadheading _meant the systematic removal of poor growth or weak flowers to allow the rest a chance to flourish, so that the energy of the plant was driven only down productive stems. And the show plants on display at the shop were only the very, very, best. Vinnie saw to that. _You have to deadhead, _she'd said, _or the bad blooms act as parasites, sucking the life-force from the ones who deserve to live._

Peter nodded, remembering: he'd commanded the escort often enough, in the Patrician's court where Vetinari had neutrally pronounced the death sentence for some truly unforgiveable crimes, and he'd done the dawn walk to the gallows often enough afterwards, with the old priest reciting the words, and Mr Trooper waiting with a smile on his face to announce _I am your hangman for today…_ some condemned men had gone with a spit and a curse, some with a joke, some in abject fear, and with all those bodily glands which were capable of exuding liquid in full flow.

_Perhaps the role of the Watch, the Courts and the Prison Service is to deadhead the human race and take away its parasitic blooms. The ragged, scrawny, dying buds with the worms in or the infestation of blackfly. _

He cooked a simple, basic, meal for himself and the boys, not minding the duty. Vinnie earned three times as much as he did, after all. This was a fact he accepted without rancour or envy. It was part of their marriage.

Her original degrees and diplomas hung over the dining room wall. A higher qualification in floristry and small business management, from the old Brazeneck Technical College in her native Pseudopolis (although he'd heard it had reinvented itself as a University since). And her first degree, a starred First, in Botanical Sciences, from the _Università degli Studi della Basilicata di Brindisi._

He smiled: that was where he had met her. Like many other gutter kids in Ankh-Morpork, he'd joined a Regiment. He had survived being commanded by Lord Rust and had been promoted Sergeant, largely on the basis of being the senior soldier out of those still alive. As soon as he could, he had offered his services to other states, on the basis that no Army anywhere could be as badly led as that of Ankh-Morpork. This had led him to the City Guard in Brindisi. Where he'd met the girl. The student at the University with flowers in her hair. she'd hung a garland of flowers round the blade of his halberd, without fear, looking straight into his eyes, that day when the Doge had ordered the Guard out to disperse some student demonstration or other. She'd taught him about a reality that didn't involve blood and death. By then he was ready to learn.

After dinner he went to walk in the garden. Getting a mortgage in Ankh-Morpork had not been a problem for the shop-owner married to a ranking prison officer. Finding a house hadn't necessarily been a problem either. But in a city strapped for space, finding one with a large garden – that they could afford - had been a million-to-one chance. She'd got it, too: the old man had been passionate about his gardening and wanted the house to go not to the biggest bid, but to the one who'd look after the land best. And now, Vinnie used the space to grow flowers for the house and shop, as well as the rockery and the greenhouses.

The greenhouses, well, two of them were _hothouses_, really, for the _tropical_ plants that brought in a steady, reliable, income. Three were open to anyone, and indeed she'd brought the boys up to play an enthusiastic part on tending and watering and nurturing. But the other two remained locked, only Vinnie had the keys, and the boys were cautioned not to try and enter. Peter had always supposed it was down to her interest in flesh-eating plants, on which she had written a Masters dissertation that had earned her a higher degree still. In between work and motherhood, she was preparing a PhD dissertation. He didn't intrude, but it was disconcerting to see his wife dress up in protective clothing and pick up a big stick before taking the feed bucket into the Special Hothouse. He was fairly sure horticulture was meant to be a sedate and fairly risk-free activity, wasn't it?

And here and there around the garden were closed frames, of glass and wood construction, that could be moved and repositioned so as to force growth in certain flower species. Most could be opened for watering, but several were locked down tight with a warning to the boys not to disturb these plants. As she said, people would pay over the odds for a fresh flower in March that in normal circumstances Nature did not mean to flourish until July.

The nagging worry formed in his head. This business of the Marriage Guidance Counsellor returning to the City after nearly five years. He couldn't remember anyone actually being arrested or hanged for those crimes. And he should _know. _Yes, if the convict was female, it was normally Mrs Jackson or Miss Ferguson** (1)** who escorted the condemned woman to the gallows, and signed her off the prison rolls after evidence of decease. But both the senior wardens on the womens' wing had pronounced themselves baffled. Rumour had it that an arrest had been made: then nothing. No delivery of a prisoner, no trial, no hanging. This disrupted expectations, and had made prison life a strangely off-key experience for a few days. Something was missing. Then it happened again, with the other wanted serial killer, presumed female, whom the _**Tanty Bugle**_ had dubbed _The Black Widow _**(2)**_. _She too disappeared suddenly, never to kill again. Yet.. no prisoner. No trial. No hanging.

Bellamy had also heard the vaguest possible rumour that, just sometimes, Vetinari would, for his own reasons, fake an execution, and then offer the "deceased" a new life and new identity. Might he not also do that if he thought the killer had skills that could usefully be harnessed in the service of the city? Or, given the widespread public sympathy for the Marriage Guidance Counsellor and her motives, the wily Vetinari might have elected for a more… discreet… disposal with no witnesses, rather than have thousands of women mob the gallows in an attempt to rescue somebody seen, by women, as a national heroine.

Mr Trooper, the hangman, wasn't saying: challenged about this by the egregious Bellyster, the civic executioner had just laughed in his face and said "'Pon my soul, sir! Do you think I would be so unprofessional as to hang a man so badly as to let him live? With broke neck or crushed throat after falling under his own weight? And for your talk of angels, Mr Bellyster, by all I hear of _you_, you need one the most!""

Bellamy was worried by the unexplained late nights that kept Vinnie at the shop. Oh, no more than once or twice a month, and she explained them as quiet time for book-keeping and accounting, or _deadheading_, but he was beginning to wonder if she was hiding something. He'd interrogated enough prisoners and searched enough cells. _Another man? _His soul froze for an instant. No: she was the sort to tell him outright, not skulk about prolonging a deception. And two evenings ago at the prison. She had come into the bedding store, just as he was directing Prisoner Gluestick to hold the sack open while Prisoner Morton filled it. He'd said _The sooner we get this to the special prisoner on remand, the sooner we're done_.

Then Gluestick had said "Begging pardon, sir, but Mrs Bellamy's here".

The two prisoners had left the part-filled sack propped up against a wall and stood back, while he had welcomed Vinnie and taken the sandwich pack off her. He'd taken his eyes off the scene for a moment to transfer the sandwich bago to his waist-pouch, methodically watching Gluestick and Morton to see they didn't pass or palm anything to each other - you had to be so vigilant. But not vigilant enough: he'd tuned , to see Vinnie with her hand deep in the bedding sack, thoughtfully working it with her gloved fingers. She had made no attempt to hide, but had said _This must be awfully uncomfortable and scratchy, Peter, especially against the skin!_

And Prisoner Gluestick had replied _When you've done twelve on the treadmill, lady, you'll sleep on rocks and take them for finest silks!_

And they'd all laughed. He'd thought nothing of it. And now they were looking at poison introduced into the bedding as cause of death… and the only person he'd seen tampering with the bedding, or seeming to, was _his own wife_…

and a very faint hint of almond in the air, which he'd subconsciously put down to something in his lunchpack. Indeed, he'd noticed later that she'd thoughtfully included a small frangipan tart, freshly-bought from a bakers' shop on the way to the Tanty.

Peter Bellamy shuddered.

_What do I do?_

Martin called "Aren't you coming in yet, dad? It's getting dark!"

Peter looked out across all he and his wife had achieved, especially the three worried looking sons, fretting that their father looked worried, and tried not to harbour a thought that it might be coming to its end.

"In a moment, son!" he called back.

_I'll talk to her when she comes in _he decided. _No, it's most logical to suppose the original Marriage Guidance Counsellor has come back after a long period of silence. Sometimes serial killers do. Just because my wife might have - MIGHT- have killed a woman whose crimes made her a pariah, it does **not **mean that those occasions she was working late at the shop, which roughly coincide with several linked deaths in the City, point adversely at her. _

Stepping past a closed and locked frame in the gathering dark, which sat at the edge of the rockery and, had he but known it, contained particularly fine examples of Überwaldean Edelschwarz, Peter Bellamy turned for the light and warmth of his home.

________________________________------

Elsewhere in the city, a man sat in his study. Not a particularly nice man, who occasionally resorts to chastising his wife with a little bit of a slap, nothing hard or exceptional, and anyway, dammit. All men do, don't they?

He is a businessman. Which is to say, he deals in commodities which are roughly 50% legal and taxable. The rest, he prefers the city not to know about.

He also doesn't know his battered and desperate wife took four thousand dollars from his safe to pay for his inhumation. His _deadheading. _

But he contemplated the flowers on the desk with baffled suspicion. Who in the Hell had sent him flowers? Apparently the woman from the florists had brought them for him from a _wellwisher._ No sir, she's gone now.

He turned them over in his hands, incidentally distributing the deadly neurotoxic pollen of the Howondalandian Death Lily over his bare skin. He now has thirty seconds to live. As he turns the blooms to his face, the Death Lily, in the dry warmth of the house, suddenly coughs a cloud of pollen into his face. The first convulsion hits a second or two later. By the time death is complete, it is a merciful release.

His wife reflects on her instructions.

_Within three minutes the pollen will bio-degrade into a harmless powder. It is only lethal when absolutely fresh. This is fine, as we only want to deadhead him, not some innocent domestic servant, or some poor soul from the Watch who's only doing their duty. Go into his study, find him deadheaded, then scream for the Watch. Pretend to be mourning over him, but discreetly try to clear what you can of the pollen with a clothes brush, especially from around the nose and mouth. When you're satisfied, bring me the balance of the fee._

The new Marriage Guidance Counsellor had struck again.

**

* * *

**

**(1)** Which Australian soap opera is being referenced here, folks? I'll give you a clue: it had a nice lady warder and an unspeakably horrible lady warder, who would have been thrown out of the SS for brutality.

**(2) **The **Bugle **also had a wide readership in the Tanty itself, possibly because, as was once pointed out to William de Worde, _people like to see their own names in print. _


	7. Unorthodox Policing

_**The MGC returns? C7**_

_The first half of this story was only meant to be a couple of pages of A4 long, to establish the concept that Licenced Assassin Johanna Smith-Rhodes performs odd jobs for her country's Embassy now and again, including bodyguarding assignments of various kinds. It also illustrates the growing gulf between her and the country she grew up in (this story is set roughly five years after "Graduation Class" and three or four before "Nature Studies"). I wanted her to have a tough night, and then get back into the main theme of_ **Murder Most 'Orrible **_and what her special expertise could contribute to the investigation._

_But if you think her evening as a bodyguard is long here... it's severly edited from the thing I ended up writing, which may well become a story all in its own right..._

Johanna Smith-Rhodes sat in an angry diplomatic silence that didn't sit well with her natural red-haired temper. She realised she had to do the occasional little job for the Embassy: as the Ambassador's niece it was _expected_ of her, and besides, she well remembered her first year in Ankh-Morpork and all the unlearning she'd had to do, all the painful reassessment and setting aside of old opinions and patterns of thought, all the learning of new ways and coming to terms with the fact that life in a multi-species, multicultural, city required the adoption of a more _liberal _frame of mind.

There were no trolls at home, for instance: the all-year heat of Howondaland was not a good environment for them. A few clans of Dwarfs, allowed citizenship to run its gold and diamond mines, were resident in Howondaland. But they were very rarely seen outside the Mine Zones that they managed for the Staadt, in return for ten per cent of the gold and gems.

Johanna inwardly fumed that _unthinking incivility _could sum up the very worst of her people's attitude to life. And that _unthinking incivility, _manifested by a White Howondalandian used only to living and moving only among other white-skinned humans, could be fatal in a city populated by a bewildering assortment of races, ethnicities and species. Several newcomers from Home hadn't lived long enough to grasp that calling trolls _rocks _to their unappreciative stony faces wasn't a good idea. And there were brown, red, yellow and black-skinned people in this city who took their equality with whites as being so basic that they didn't have to think about it. Until they met Boors, who believed in the exact opposite.

After a few instances of what the Watch had chosen to call _suicide, _Ambassador van der Graaf had instituted _orientation lessons _for new Embassy staff and other visitors from Home, just off the boats. A handbook, written in consultation with Patrician Vetinari's staff, had been published for newcomers, and it was now the practice for long-time Howondalandian residents to escort newcomers to the city, point out how to blend in, and attempt to sooth over any little difficulties caused by ignorance and _cultural misunderstanding._

Which was why Johanna was currently squirming inside, thinking _Was I really this stupid when I arrived in this city? _

Asked to act as escort and guide to two newcomers from Home, she had met them in the Springboek Club, the Howondalandian bar and social club that had been built in the Embassy grounds as a place where the city's expatriots could meet and enjoy the comforts of Home. Here, Howondalandian law and custom legally applied, and even in the early evening, ruddy-cheeked Boors were being provided with strong drink by downcast and submissive-looking black servants imported from Home.

She had accepted an iced tea from a servant with a word of thanks: as always, the fact she'd _thanked_ a bleck servant drew a mixture of responses, mainly raised eyebrows, but in one case a derisive jeer. It had come from a well-dressed, big-built, young man, about Johanna's own age, who was leaning on the bar quaffing from a stein.

"Where ere you _from_, girlie? You never _thenk_ the blecks! It spoils them!"

"I'm from the same country as you." Johanna responded, in _Vondalaans._ "And if you are Jakob DeBeers, I have been living here five years longer than you have! The Ambassador has arranged for me to take you and Mr Lutjens on a walking tour of the City. I will show you what to look out for and, very importantly, how local culture differs from our own. Outside the Embassy gates, there is a very different world. And a potentially lethal one."

Johanna had known DeBeers was going to be trouble right from the start. Unlike Lutjens, a small, serious, diplomat who was not built for fighting, he was brash, arrogant and trouble on legs. He was eldest son of one of the richest familes in Howondaland, and had come over to take his rightful place in the family diamond business in its Ankh-Morpork office. Proud of his status and name, he wasn't prepared to take instructions from a mere _girlie_ – part of the Boor male chauvinism Johanna had left her homeland to escape from – and certainly not from a member of a fading family whose days were over, such as the diminishing Smith-Rhodes.

Four hours later, after a terse argument with him, as he laid in his bed at the Lady Sybil, she wished she'd never met the man. He hadn't listened to a single word she'd said, for one thing. He'd precipitated a situation with the Thieves' Guild while she had been trying to explain how the system worked and what a Guild premium entitled you to. DeBeers had loudly refused outright to pay protection money to scum from the gutter.

This had provoked a near-fight where naked blades had been drawn, and Johanna had been forced to explain that however obnoxious the client, if an Assassin has been retained to bodyguard, then she _bodyguards_. Try to rob him, and I might be forced, with exceeding reluctance, to inhume somebody. However, should you ever see this bloody idiot out in the street and he _still _hasn't bought a Guild premium, and I am not there, then he's all yours, and don't spare the cosh.

Lutjens, on the other hand, had paid over a year's protection on the spot – he could reclaim it from the Embassy as a valid business expense – and, under Johanna's stern uncompromising gaze, the head Thief had said

"There you go, sir! See what happens when you're sensible?" and delivered only a very token tap with his cosh. "That's you paid up for a year, and have a very nice stay in our City!"

Fuming with rage, she had then led her escortees to the Mended Drum in the hope of a make-or-break demonstration of holding your own peace in Ankh-Morpork.

This involved Sam, the latest barman-cum-informal diplomat-cum-bouncer at the Drum. His family were Howondalandian too, if you went far enough back, but were a _different_ sort of Howondalandian.

"Trouble, Johanna?" he'd said, amiably, displaying perfect white teeth in a very dark brown face. Before she could reply, DeBeers was in there growling

"You speak to a white lady with _respect_, boy!"

"Oh, _kak_!" she had thought. _A black man on first name terms with me. It's just not done at home!_

"I _always_ speak to white ladies with respect, chum. I married one, din'I!" He indicated the pretty blonde barmaid with a sweep of a long, muscular arm. She grinned back.

Johanna had heard the rasping of a chair and a distant yelp. Whenever life took her to the Drum, which wasn't often, she'd learnt to treat Professor Rincewind from the University much as a coal-miner treats a canary. When he dived under his table for cover – and without spilling a drop of his beer – then there was about to be an explosion of coal-damp. And down the bar, the Librarian was unfolding two long, long, red-haired arms with that dreamy far-away look on his face that most regulars at the Drum had learnt to dread.

"I see." Said the haughty DeBeers. " A cheeky kaffir behind the bar. A _kaffirnaaie. _And a bloody _monkey_ on this side of it!"

Johanna knew it was time to cut her losses and get out. And DeBeers had dropped himself _right_ in it. Several times over.

"Don't hurt him _too_ much. I want this to be a learning experience!" she said, trying to take in the Librarian and Sam at the same time, as she began to hustle Lutjens to the door.

She hailed a cab, holding it ready to take what was left of DeBeers to the Lady Sybil.

There had been more than one Assassin in the Drum: the soon-to-be-fighters held back for just long enough for the Guild members present to courteously leave the premises, as most sane pub brawlers know better than to mix it with the professionals, and most Assassins are above low brawling. (Unless they really have to or they've developed a taste for it. Or are just angry enough.)

They made polite small-talk in the street as the fight raged, and then faded into a few residual clangs, crashes and clatters.

"I hear this new serial killer's struck again" Martin Wilder-Young (Cobra House) said. "It's all over the _**Times **_and the latest _**Bugle**_"

With unspoken accord, the Assassins all took a few paces to their right, Johanna pulling Lutjens with her. Seconds later, a body was propelled through the door, landing with a crash where they had been standing.

"Interesting business." replied Arthur Ludorum (Viper House). "Apparently a copycat killer. We bagged the original, didn't we?"

"Not only bagged her but signed her up, by all accounts." agreed Martin. "Fairly solid rumour says Mrs Mericet…" he paused, embarrassed, looking at Johanna, who smiled, "that is, Miss Sanderson-Reeves, has been given full QCIC powers to investigate. It shows how much trust Downey's got in her!"

The three Assassins paused, reflectively watching as the Librarian dragged Jakob deBeers' unconscious body into the street. He looked at Johanna and embarassedly said "Ooook…"

"No need to epologise, old man!" Johanna replied. "He wes the one who… well, got it completely wrong ebout you!" She took the Librarian's paw and reassuringly squeezed it.

"Oook.." said a suddenly bashful orang. Johanna smiled: she and the Librarian were, in a way, old friends who understood each other. He regarded her as one of a few humans he could really _talk_ to.

"Ah. Your client for tonight." Martin said, thoughtfully. "Will you get into trouble for this?"

"Probably." Johanna said, shrugging. "But I'm beyond caring now. Thet bleddy fool did not listen to me _once,_ end nearly got me killed by the Thieves' Guild! When he wakes up, he will, I hope, hev learnt a _lesson_ ebout this city. Several, I hope!"

Sam, the barman, came out whistling. There was a swelling bruise on one cheek, but he didn't seem overly concerned. His muscles glistened black under a tight white vest that announced his membership of the Dimwell Amateur Pugilist Society. He was holding a bucket.

"I never touched him _once_, Miss Smith-Rhodes."

Johanna was relieved he was being formal. Having to explain being on first-name terms with a black man could cause her problems in the expat community. Even after five years, she was still a little bit shocked by open mixed-race relationships – some forms of conditioning are hard to overcome – but she'd learnt not to be judgemental. People were people and lust and love, she had come to suspect, were not bound by mere apartheid laws.

"The Librarian got to him first and gave him the usual nature lesson."

She smiled. The Librarian could be _abrupt_ when explaining the biological differences between monkeys and apes. But he knew when to stop bouncing the offender's head off the floor, usually long before permanent damage was inflicted. _Exactly_ the lesson DeBeers needed.

Atrhur Ludorum, a quiet and reflective Assassin, nodded.

"You can only do so much on a bodyguarding contract if your client refuses your good advice, and insists on not making friends and influencing people." he mused. "In those circumstances you save what you can, especially if it puts your life in danger, and make the best of it. You won't get the fee now, Johanna, but if Downey has a "_what went wrong_?" inquiry, I'd be happy to give you a witness statement!"

"Thenks" she said, sincerely. Arthur was a good friend to younger Assassins and had no prejudices about women in the profession. He had a solid record of successes and his word carried weight in the Guild.

Sam the barman, she noted, was carrying a bucket and had a mischievous glint in his eye. His petite, pretty, blonde wife Gloria, a native Morporkian girl, also had a bucket, which _slopped._

"Johanna" Gloria said, thoughtfully. "That _word_ he used to describe me? _Kaffirnayer_, or something?"

"It is a bad word." Johanna said, unwilling to precisely translate. "A nasty, hateful word." she added, with complete truthfulness.

Lutjens had coloured bright red. Gloria nodded, reading his face.

She had been a ladies' boxing champion when she met Sam. A good one. Her face was hardly marked. It gave her an edge when working in the Drum, as unwary drinkers using a phrase like "I likes a woman with spirit!" before making unwanted physical contact soon learnt _exactly _how much spirit she had.

"Well" Sam said, "I remember he asked me for a drink. And I don't want to be inhospitable to a visitor to our fine city!"

He upended the bucket. It was brimful of slops from several days of bar trade. Sour, stale, beer. It slopped all over deBeers' head and face and left him coughing feebly.

"Your beer_, baas_!" Sam announced, in a parody of a black servant. "And here's one on the house, from the wife!"

Gloria followed through, gleefully, with her own slops bucket.

The game over, Johanna signalled for him to be poured into the waiting cab, paying the driver well over the odds for cleaning afterwards, but being sure to extract the money from deBeers' ample wallet first.

__________________________________------

And later that evening, after making herself see the idiot in hospital first, and assuring herself of his essential health, she bought a late edition of the _**Times **_and the latest _**Tanty Bugle. **_She read them in a late-opening coffee shop, to distract her mind from the rest of the evening. Then she realised where she needed to be, and headed back to the Guild.

____________________________________----

The informal investigation team in Alice's rooms at the Guild had swollen to five. Alice, Joan Sanderson-Reeves, and Sergeant Cheery Littlebottom had been joined by Sergeant Angua von Überwald and Constable Sally von Humperdink.

They had reviewed previous findings pointing a finger in the direction of florist Mrs Davinia Bellamy, and were reflecting on how the latest murder in the series, suspected to be that of the new Marriage Guidance Counsellor, fitted the known MMO of the suspect.

"Have we identified the flowers yet?" Joan asked, briskly.

Cheery coughed. "They're under special guard at the Yard." she said. "We took every caution in collecting them in, after we worked out from the prison killing that they're likely to be the poisonous agent. To be honest, nobody really wanted to touch them or go near them. I'd have gone in with gloves and protective clothing, but then I thought we've got Constable Dorfl, and Constable Shoe, neither of whom need to breathe as such, and neither of whom can easily be poisoned. Reg and Dorfl put their heads together on getting them back to the Watch safely and discreetly. They're in a locked and airtight evidence locker at the moment, and Nobby's been absolutely warned not to go looking."

"Did you collect them discreetly?" demanded Joan. "If our Mrs Bellamy is the one we want, and she's imitating my old working method, then it's likely the wife commissioned the killing and she will recently have had direct contact with the lovely Davinia. We don't want her going back and warning her we're on the trail!"

"We've got a couple of gargoyles in place watching the shop." Angua said. "Although that's a risk, as _you_ would have had every interest in watching the building opposite your cookery school. If the skyline had suddenly sprouted a couple of extra gargoyles…"

"Which I _did_ notice, Sergeant!" Joan said. "Just before you people tried a set-up on me."

"And there are undercover CSP people trailing the wife. After we questioned her at the Yard, she went straight home and so far has made no attempt to contact Mrs Bellamy. She is known to have visited the shop two days before the killing, though."

"As for discretion, the victim's study has been transferred, right down to the carpet and pictures on the wall, and set out exactly as it was in a spare room at the Yard. The flowers were a small part of that. We've told the wife we don't know what poisoned her husband, so we need to look more closely at _everything_. She's happy with that."

Alice, who had been comparing photos, said "No doubt about it, though. Similar bouquets were there in four of the previous murders. So one of these flowers, or more, could be the lethal poisonous one. And we can't narrow it down any further than _probably lilies_?"

"We need a botanist!" sighed Cheery and Joan together.

"Lilies have an old, old, association with death, though." Sally said. "Maybe that's a statement in itself?"

"Hum.. ._Mr Mericet_…. isn't available tonight, and in his specialist area he's the nearest thing to a botanist that we've got" sighed Joan. "So we'll just have to bash on regardless. What about the florists' shop cards from the various murder scenes?"

"Here's a funny thing. None of them are from Bellamy's." remarked Sally.

"Well, you wouldn't expect them to be. Too easy. Given that they're randomly assorted from ten different florists' shops, you wonder if she's muddying the waters here. Diverting attention. "

"I've looked at the writing on the cards." Sally said. "Even though some is in italic, some is in capitals and some is copperplate, I'd bet good money they're all written by the same person. Too many similarities."

The cards were circulated and discussed, with Sally pointing out what she'd seen. Angua briefly considered sniffing them, then reflected they'd all been attached to lethally poisonous bunches of flowers. She'd get nothing of the human, and everything of the flowers. Scent only, if she was lucky.

And then Johanna joined them. She was welcomed and provided with hot coffee.

"Hard night?" Alice asked, sympathetically.

"Occupational hezerd of being en Essessin! I nearly got killed!"

She explained her evening, and the rest offered sympathy and hugs.

"Mr Vimes _insisted _your people get some sort of basic orientation before they're allowed out on the street in this city." Angua said, carefully. "There have been just too many incidents. The Patrician backed him up, and made a strong case to your Embassy."

"I understand." Johanna said. "Culture shock cen be a terrible thing!"

"So this chap thought he knew better?" Sally said grinning. "Just off the banana-boat, in town for half an afternoon, and refused the good advice of somebody who's been here five years. If you ask me, he got off lightly with concussion. It sounded halfway to being a _suicide_!"

Johanna snorted.

"Ach, Boor men are _born_ pre-concussed!"

"We have six in the School at the moment. I think of their re-education as a positive duty! Send 'em back improved, that's what I say!" Joan said, cheerfully. "Anyway, m'dear, see what you can make of these. Fresh eyes, and all that."

While Johanna studied reports and photos, Alice thoughtfully said

"Have you noticed something? There are six of us in this room. Three Assassins and three Watchwomen. Yet we're completely at ease around each other and we're not, for instance, one short step away from strangling, killing, insulting, or plotting to inhume one another, nor are we generally behaving with all the mutual courtesy and respect Lord Downey and Commander Vimes normally show towards each other."

"Well," Sally said, pondering this.

"There's a distinct absence of testosterone in the air, whatever other poisons we may be dealing with. In the main, we go to the same hairdresser's. We're women. We don't have _time_ for macho posturing and all that pissing about. There's a job to do and we're getting on with it. " She paused, and added

"We should go for a drink together. Now THAT would be a whole lot of fun!"

Joan had heard of the Watchwomen's idea of a good night out.

_Ankh-Morpork_ had heard of a Watchwoman's idea of a good night out. Part of her winced at what Downey might say the next morning, but just enough of her was still in her twenties and refused to believe the body carrying a twenty-five year old Joan about was now in its early fifties. A delicious image arose, of Downey calling his female teaching staff in for a disciplinary the morning after. A smile spread across her face.

"Whyever not?" she said, softly.

Johanna's head rose.

"I'm no expert" she said, "but this is something from Home I thought I'd never see over here. This is the Howondalandian Death Lily! There is just one, look, in the centre of each bouquet."

They crowded round to look.

"It grows in the Hubward jungles. Efter it is fertilised, it spreads its pollen in a single explosive puff end cen fire it for up to fifty feet. The pollen is ebsolutely deadly, end kills in seconds. I learnt ebout it when I did my Jungle Survivel course. You learn ebout the things thet cen kill you, or you _die_."

"Who would have access to it here?" Angua asked.

"Enkh-Morpork is too cold end too damp – in the wrong way – for this lily to grow neturelly. You would need a commercial hothouse to grow it, end you would need to take precautions egainst being exposed to the pollen. Hothouses are not cheap things to build end run. Who in this city hes them?"

"So we need to know where the hothouses are in the city." Cheery said. "And who has access to them. I'll get onto it."

"We need a file on the Bellamys" added Joan. "If Mrs Bellamy has access to such a hothouse and these things grow there, then it's another piece of evidence!"

"On it" said Cheery, making a note. "I'll find out what CSP have got and if they aren't looking, I'll get them off their arses."

"We also need to get into her shop. Have a jolly good root around."

"How?" asked Angua. "Mr Vimes won't give a warrant without clear evidence. Any other way is just breaking and entering, and the Patrician… well, you know Mr Vimes is getting a taste for that black yeasty breakfast spread from Fourecks? The one you either love or hate? He spreads it thickly on his toast, according to Lady Sybil. And after the Patrician's bollocked him, say after Nobby's entered somewhere without a warrant and taken informal evidence away, that's _exactly_ what he does to the Watch. He takes something nasty and hard to swallow and lays it on thick, that's the point I'm trying to get at here."

"And while _we're_ trained in stealthy entry, lockpicking, and defusing traps, Lord Downey isn't happy if we use those skills outside of pursuing a lawful contract." Alice mused. "If we break and enter into anywhere and the Thieves' Guild gets to hear about it, Mr Boggis gives Lord Downey an earful about demarcation. Then Lord Downey calls the offenders to the office, gives them the lecture about overconfidence, and makes them eat the almond slice."

She shuddered, expressively. "Oh, you get the antidote afterwards, but that isn't the point. A sub-lethal dose of arsenic has a powerful laxative effect."

Assassins and Watchwomen paused, in a sympathetic mutual understanding of each others' troubles and limitations.

Joan looked furiously reflective.

"So. We can't get in and pose as customers because Assassins walking into the shop would fire her suspicion. There are only a handful of Watchwomen who could go in undercover, and all their faces are too well known. And, no offence, undercover Watch _do_ tend to stand out in civvies. You're too used to wearing uniform! That's what tipped me off to the gel you sent to trap _me_, by the way. She was just a dem' sight _too_ uncomfy in regular womens' clothes. "

"No offence taken. You're dead right." Angua said, evenly, storing up a useful bit of policecraft for future use, and reflecting that informal links to friendly Assassins could be very useful, even if Mr Vimes was going to go utterly spare when he heard about the degree of fraternizing that was going on. _Or is it sororizing? _

"Your Nobby Nobbs has been heard to say that when he tries out shop doors at night, as is his duty, sometimes a door just….you know… falls open, and he then has to go in and make sure _nobody else_ has been stealing from the premises." Joan said, her brain working furiously.

"As is his duty. Now, let's say myself and a friend who is _skilled_ in these things were to be having a late-night stroll on Pellicool Steps one night, after he's just bought my dinner. Just a little post-prandial stroll by moonlight. To aid digestion."

"Of course, Joan!" everyone else chorused, keeping their faces very straight.

"Let's say we're admiring the flowers in Bellamy's window. And her door…er… was in securely locked and swung open. As public spirited citizens, myself and Mr Nivor might be forced to go in, just for a moment, and secure the premises, yes?"

Angua looked doubtful.

"And this is the same Mr G.D. Nivor, who appears on the Assassins' School teaching staff roster as senior lecturer in lockpicking, traps, deadfalls and stealthy entering?" she enquired.

"Perfectly coincidentally, of course. And what if one of us were to be carrying one of the new iconographs, with night-vision imp. I don't pretend to understand all the dark magic involved, but apparently the imp can see and paint in the dark with no need for a flash attachment that gives you away the moment you fire the salamander.. The little blighters are bred to see into the infra-red, or something."

"You've actually got those?" Cheery squeaked, bouncing with excitement. "I thought the wizards said we're at least five years away from that sort of technomancy!"

"That's for public consumption, m'dear." Joan said, cheerfully. "We funded the wizards to advance the research, so that the Guild could have first divs. They're just prototypes for field testing right now, but _we're_ doing the testing!"

Joan added, slyly, "I could arrange for you to have a go on one, if you like. Then you can bung a secret report on Sam Vimes' desk to say these things exist, and can he buy you one for Hogswatch?"

Angua appeared to reach a decision.

"OK, then. You're with an expert in his field. You're posing as an old married couple out for the evening." Angua waited for the muffled laughter to die down, and added "Just so long as it's a straight in-and-out, and you tell me _exactly_ when you're doing it, I'll see there isn't a Watch patrol in the area for twenty minutes. But any sign of trouble, you're on your own, and we haven't had this conversation, OK?"

"_Perfectly_ acceptable, m'dear!" said Joan.

Alice interrupted them.

"It's eleven-forty now. Two of us have got dorm checks to do. Shall we call it a night and meet up again tomorrow?"


	8. Shop Security

_**The MGC returns? C8**_

At the very end of the working day, with dusk beginning to fall over the city, Davinia Bellamy set about the last chores involved in closing her shop . She transferred the day's cash receipts to the safe, and logged the final tally in the ledger. She ensured those delicate plants that needed a last overnight feed or water were tended to. She locked the back door and performed a security check around any windows that might tempt a passing Thief. She frowned at the skylight over the stairwell, that offered access from the roof, which had always been a security hazard – Peter, with his unique trade skills, had pointed this out to her.

She shrugged, and did what she always did, moving several large ornamental cacti underneath the skylight, where they would be sure to catch the first morning sun, for their benefit.

And, with the Apache Hospitality Cactus **(1)** directly underneath, together with a judicious selection of lesser thorny and spiky plants, Davinia now had no fear of thieves dropping in through the skylight. Indeed, other similar plants were displayed, with seeming innocence, just where they could catch the maximum light through each window.

She smiled, and went to activate the rest of her security system. Several months ago, an unlicenced thief had actually got into the shop: she had discovered his body the following morning, and had diligently and carefully checked it for the ID that Watchmen, Licenced Thieves, and Assassins were required, by strict City law, to carry. Discovering none, she had reasoned that reporting the death to the Watch would bring unwelcome attention to her premises and activities. Surprised that she could think so calmly and handle a dead man on her shop floor so clinically, she had set about disposing of the corpse. This meant her carnivorous plants ate well for a few weeks, which was a great saving on the food bill.

Humming to herself, she got the hand-truck out and moved several large, heavy, _somethings_ across the shop, from their daytime location in the _special_ store-room. Davinia was in her middle thirties and her waist was slightly thickened by motherhood; but the constant work in the gardens and greenhouses, combined with doing her own heavy lifting in the shop and elsewhere, had kept her generally physically fit. Therefore she was breathing hardly more heavily whilst hoisting and lifting and moving the _security system_ into place. Finally, satisfied with her work, she got her hat, coat and bag and left for home, locking up on the way out.

________________________________-----

"Of course, you'll see it for yourself when the first of your girls has gone all the way through the system and graduated with the full Black." he said, pouring more wine. "There is nothing more satisfying than seeing 'em qualify, Joan! It leaves you with a nice warm glow and a feeling that some of them have got the idea, at least. And just now and then, there's a golden year where you get a cluster of quite brilliant, outstanding, students."

Grunworth Nivor sighed, reflectively.

"The year Viper House had young Arthur Ludorum, Chidder, and Teppic. Never known a class like it, before or since!" **(2)**

"Teppic. That was the boy from Djelibeybi, I believe?" said Joan. "The chap who did that absolutely remarkable inhumation.? Totally unbelievable. You would think somebody had made it all up, until you look at the evidence!"

"Three thousand past monarchs. And a pantheon of Gods. All at once. Now THAT is Assassination!"

Joan and Nivor paused, glasses raised, in silent commemoration of one of the Guild's greatest inhumations.

"Of course, he retired from the active profession immediately afterwards." Nivor said. "You can see his point, after all. What the lad pulled off in Djelibeybi was a hard act to follow!"

"What's he doing now?" Joan inquired.

"Teamed up with young Chidder, I believe. Mercantile Venturing . Or as Chidder described it, _Stealth Import-Export_."

"Ah. The sort that sidesteps Customs." Joan mused.

"Indeed" said Nivor, and smiled. Despite herself, Joan was drawn to that smile, which on a younger, thinner, man, might once have promised _adventure_ and _excitemen_t and _I am a thoroughly bad boy who is dangerous to know. _On a comfortably plump grey-haired man approaching sixty, it had necessarily settled down to _I might have a surprise or two left over, for the right woman. _It made him a thoroughly congenial dinner partner, especially as he was an old-school gentleman who wouldn't _dream_ of going Kerrigian on the bill. In Nivor's world, the gentleman paid for the lady, _always_. And he had a wealth of entertaining tales about the Guild and the School, going back nearly fifty years.

"You never married, Grune?" she asked.

"Never felt the need to, m'dear." he said. "Which isn't to say there haven't been, y'know, _candidates_. And you?"

Joan sighed. It always came back to Harold, even thirty years on, the feeling that his ghost was standing just behind her and the slight but niggling guilt that any involvement with other men was an act of infidelity to his memory. She knew it was stupid – he wasn't going to come back (or if he had, reincarnation, as she understood it, meant that he was hardly likely to come chasing after a woman who would necessarily be up to fifty years older. And besides, Harold might now be a woman in Agatea or somewhere equally remote. He'd be somebody else, in fact. That was the whole point of reincarnation, after all.)

Joan had thought about these things. Her Harold had been kind and generous and understanding. If his ghost had ever visited her, he was more likely to be _begging_ her to go and find somebody else before it got to be too late. If he were here now, he'd be whispering in her ear _Look Joan. This is a nice decent old buffer. He's lived a life. Sown several fields of wild oats. He's looking retirement in the face, and like the other one who's after you, he's frightened of living a long lonely retirement in one of those tied cottages the Guild allocates to faithful servants in retirement. Followed by a quiet unremarked death where only a handful of old associates turn up to the funeral out of duty rather than love, and whoever is Guild Master on the day preaches a fill-in-the-blanks rote eulogy. And if you're honest, you know __**you'll**__ be feeling the same way sooner than you think. What's wrong with a little companionship in the autumn of life? _

And at the end of a particularly palatable Brindisian meal in a little place Grune knew, just off the Pelicool Steps, she felt nothing at all was wrong with a little companionship in the _late summer_, if you please, Harold, of her life. And knowing she wasn't _entirely_ past it, in the eyes of two men who each had something to offer, was good for her morale.

She left the part of her mind where Harold was forever the young cavalry officer in his middle twenties who'd ridden off, under the command of the old Lord Rust, to a battle from which he had never returned. Nivor had ordered more sparkling wine.

"Don't overdo it, Grune!" she quietly warned him. "We still have the _other_ little thing to do tonight. We'll need a clear head for that, won't we?"

"Ah, our little adventure!" he replied. "I'm quite looking forward to it! Chance to use me old craft skills and see if what I teach 'em is still up to date. A practical refresher!"

_And I have every confidence in you, _Joan thought. _Provided you're sober!_

___________________________-----_

Davinia Bellamy had an uneventful walk home. In the Ankh-Morpork throng, she was an unremarkable woman, one the eye of an observer passes over and instantly forgets. She was mousy blonde, and had the ruddy cheeks of a woman who spends a lot of time out of doors. The Disc did have its patron Goddesses of agricultural fertility and earthly fecundity: in the Dunmanifestin scheme of things, they were ever fated to be one of two types. On the one hand, there were the big brisk no-nonsense Disc-Mother types with burly arms, broad hips, and large feet. Then there were the mousy, sensible ones with ruddy cheeks and slightly dowdy serviceable clothes, where old comfortable skirts and thick boots featured large in the scheme of things. The Summer Lady was only ever the custodian of the Cornucopia: very few people ever stopped to ask which Goddesses ran the service industries that kept it flowing.

Thus, the agricultural goddesses were unfavoured twice over: as with other forms of PR, the iconogenic Summer Lady took credit for her homelier sisters' background work in getting the damn stuff to grow. And next to more alluring deities such as Petunia (Goddess of Negotiable Affection) Astoria (Goddess of Love) and Urika (Goddess of Going Bare-Ass Nekkid In The Sauna), not many Discly sculptors lavished a great deal of time and attention to _their _statues.

Frigger, the Hublandish Goddess of Fertility, summed up the quiet frustrations of her divine sisters around the Disc at not being able to get a word in edgeways with all these bleedin' useless bimbos around. Give Astoria a trowel and a job of _real_ work to do and she'd pack it in inside fifteen minutes, lazy cow…** (3)**

Davinia was one of the latter class of Disc-Mothers: the quiet, thoughtful ones who brought science into the art of growing green things. As with all Disc-mothers, she had a gift and a talent for making things grow that verged on the mystical complaint of _ped fecundis._ She felt completely at home in her life: she loved her husband, who she suspected still saw a beauty in her that had only just applied fifteen years before and certainly didn't apply to her now. She adored her sons; and she loved her job. But…. _deadheading…_ was getting to be so, so, addictive. She was starting to get worried.

Arriving home, she kissed Peter warmly, her wife-senses noting that he seemed _worried_ about something. She hugged and kissed the boys and they ate together, sharing the daily stories of prison, florists' shop and schools. Later in the evening the boys went up to bed. Davinia and Peter were then alone downstairs.

"You're frowning, Peter. Is there anything wrong?" she asked.

He looked at her and his eyes showed sorrow, worry and concern.

"Vinnie. We've got to talk. I know you've never ever told me a lie before…"

Her heart dropped. Of all the people who could have worked it out. Peter. She'd been hoping to spare him this. Well, perhaps it was for the best. Maybe together they could work out a solution.

She took a deep breath.

"You're right. I've never told you a lie. And I'm not going to start now."

"Go on." he prompted her. He took her hands, accepting her, and gave her his steadiest look.

"It all began eight or nine months ago. You remember Mrs Attwood, who ran a street flower barrow for me? Well, she came in to load one morning and she had really bad bruises. She'd come into work before with cuts and bruises…"

And before she knew it, she'd told her husband everything.

"I see." he said, afterwards. It wasn't much, but it was all he was able to manage. _My wife, the serial killer. _

"I was just so angry, Peter! Why should men like this feel they can get away with it? I wasn't asking for money, but Mrs Attwood gave me five hundred by way of thanks. And it was flattering when the _**Tanty Bugle**_ picked up on some of the deadheading I've done, and got all tabloid about the Marriage Guidance Counsellor coming back from the grave. I read about the original and I realised she did _exactly_ the same as me for _exactly_ the same reasons."

"Yes, but she got caught!" Peter objected. "And so will _you_ be!"

Davinia hung her head.

"Look" he said. "I'll help cover up the killing you did at the prison. And that is asking a lot of me, Vinnie! A _lot._ It's the first time in my career I'll have behaved in a corrupt and criminal way. And Gods, I hope it's the only one! But in return, you've got to promise me you'll stop. No more! I don't think the Watch have enough clues to lead back to you yet, and if you're wise, you won't give them any. But it stops here!"

"I understand, Peter" she whispered, and they hugged furiously. Davinia realised with a flood of hurt that her husband was weeping.

_But it's so addictive. _she told herself.

___________________________----

"And that was the problem, Grune. I just couldn't stop!" Joan explained, as they walked down Pelicool Steps with their arms linked, an old married couple on a night out.

"At first it was a favour, a service to women who were having a hard time. Then I really got to like it. You know the kids have their own vocabulary? Everything is _cool _if they like what they're doing."

"Or if it's got _style_". Agreed Grune. "Changes with every new first year, and damn' hard to keep up with!"

"You hear them talking about something having a _buzz_ and a _charge_? When it gets the blood flowing and the adrenaline pumping? Well, that's how I felt about the _sterilizations_ I did when I was the Marriage Guidance Counsellor. The planning, the execution, the act, of inhuming some worthless slimy toad of a man. It was one great big buzz, Grune! "

"You got addicted, Joan!" her escort commented, wryly.

"I know. I just couldn't stop. I kept on going, even though I knew the Watch and the Guild were hunting me down. The addiction, the thrill of the game, y'see. I'm betting that if our Davinia Bellamy is the woman we're after, she'll be hooked on the buzz as well, like a troll on Slab. She'll find it impossible to stop herself, even though if she stops now, there's no really hard evidence and we'll never be able to bring charges that stick. That's the _sensible_ thing to do. But if I couldn't find the strength to do the sensible thing and stop, she won't either."

"And then we bag her. Reckon Downey will make her the offer?"

"He's almost bound to. He's running another Mature Students Class as soon as he gets the numbers together. The big question is whether _we_ get her first, of course. The Watch have been really co-operative, but when we get into the final straight, Vimes is going to want _his _people to nab her first. Which almost certainly means the Tanty, and a short exposure to Mr Trooper's irritating jollyness. After which, death must come as a blessed relief!"

"Unless Vetinari takes a personal interest. As he did with _you_, Joan!"

Joan remembered. Her arrest, and being led under guard into the Master's office. Where Downey had not been sitting _behind _the Master's desk, but to one side of it, flanked by very senior Assassins. On the other side had been Commander Sir Samuel Vimes, backed up by senior Watch officers. And the man who was sitting behind the master's desk, with steepled fingers and a look of mild curiosity on his face, had been Lord Vetinari, who had deftly adjudicated on a little matter of demarcation between the City Watch and the Assassins' Guild. He had resolved it by asking Joan to choose whether the City or the Guild should execute her for mass murder, as both undeniably had a pressing case. Joan, preferring a quick clean death in private, had opted for the Guild. Then Vetinari had nodded, approved of her choice that the Guild had priority over the Watch, and offered her an angel….

_Will Davinia Bellamy get an Angel? _she wondered. _No doubt if I'd chosen the City, that devious bugger would have found a way to fake my death on the gallows, and send me to the Guild for a year of __**"pass-it-or-die-trying**__" Assassin training. Rumour has it that's how he bagged Lipwig. _

Pelicool Steps was a surprisingly pleasant waterfront vista overlooking the Ankh just Hubwards of the docks. Formerly a landing step for smaller boats, it was now a parade of upmarket shops, stores and eating houses serving the socially upmarket Ankh side of the city. It was no great walk from the Brindisian restaurant, past Grace Speaker's pet store, to Bellamy's florists, where a notice in the window advised a flower-arranging consultancy and home delivery service was available for all your floral needs: weddings, funerals, appearances before the Law Courts,**(4)** formal dinners and receptions, and religious rites of passage, all faiths catered to. Another notice discreetly said _Tropical plants of all kinds catered for. We can source and price that rarity you are looking for. Or why not come in and look at what's new? There's always something new out of Howondaland! _**(5)**

"I'll _bet _there is" Joan muttered.

Grunworth Nivor, meanwhile, was studying the door, stroking his chin, and assessing the situation.

"Three deadlocks. One top. One middle, one bottom" he said. "may be reinforced with bolts, too, but that depends on whether the staff use the front of back entrance as their way in. Hard to bolt a door on the inside after you've locked it from the outside!"

".No sign of any technomantic alarms. Just bear with me a second, Joan m'dear!"

Nivor walked carefully around the front of the door, stamping on the flags, listening for the hollow sound that suggested a tilting slab ands a pit underneath, which would open and pitch an unfortunate intruder into the Undercity if the correct procedure were not followed for unlocking the door. Joan nodded: such a trap had killed one of her fellow trainees in their final test. He'd picked the lock successfully, but had been standing too near to the door and directly in front as it swung open. A reciprocating mechanism had pitched him vertically downwards into an Emergency Drop which, in the event, he had failed.

Nivor, misreading her smile, allowed himself to be distracted. Allowing a different sort of passion to take over, he swept Joan into his arms and said

"Such a beautiful night for a walk by the river, don't you think? And with an attractive woman!"

"Grunworth Nivor!" she said, failing completely to look stern. "You do choose your moments, don't you?"

Torn between _Look, pay attention to the job, please! _and _Well, perhaps one little kiss won't do any harm…_ the decision was made for her by a slight _swish!_ in the air, followed by a gentle scuffing noise. People other than Assassins might not have paid attention to it, but Joan and Grune broke apart and took up defensive positions, reaching for handy weapons.

"Oh. It's you." Joan said, re-sheathing the throwing knife. Grune exhaled and relaxed.

The black shape in front of them nodded, and resolved itself into a night-clad Assassin.

"I really hope I've not disturbed a Moment". said Alice Band. "But before the two of you do anything you'll end up regretting in the morning, can I advise you I have thirty advanced students up there doing a night edificeering class? I _have_ warned them that if any of them snigger audibly, it's an automatic Fail mark, but they're all up there watching you."

On cue, a muted giggle, suddenly cut off, drifted down to them. Alice looked up and glared.

"Donnington Major of Four Ragineau's, I suspect." she said. "So this is the shop?"

Nivor, the professional Assassin, explained the situation. Alice nodded.

"I'll take a couple of the best students and scout the rear entrance for you. You two carry on pretending to be out-of-practice lovers who've drunk too much. You're doing a grand job of it, I must say! Won't be long!"

Alice flowed back up the side of the building. The two older Assassins fancied that they saw dark shapes detach themselves and move against the cloud cover, far above. Grune and Joan slumped into a recessed doorway and waited in the shadow. Rebelliously, they clasped hands.

A dark shadow passed across the doorway.

"We are here" Grune whispered.

"Please sir, ma'am. Miss Band sent me to say there's a back door which only seems to have one visible lock on it, and no obvious technomancy. But she believes it's guarded. Something sentient, but not human."

"Any alternative ways?" Joan asked, briefly.

"There's a skylight, ma'am, but Miss Band advises you strongly against using it as you'll drop on to something sharp. She couldn't see more than that with the night light. She believes somebody is going to great lengths to keep intruders out."

"Thank you, er? "

"Donnington Minor, ma'am. Ragineau's House".

The young Assassin disappeared. Grune and Joan looked at each other.

"Back to the front door, then, m'dear!" he said. They returned, and contemplated the front door. The sound of tramping boots and jingling armour came to them, and they retreated into the dark again.

It was a Watch patrol. One was recognisable as the slouching, defeated figure of Corporal Nobby Nobbs: the other, Joan noted, was that damn smart vampire, Sally. Who cheerfully looked straight at Joan and Grune and said

"Hi, Joan. You must be Darby….sorry! _**Mr Nivor**_? Angua sent us to ask if you're done yet."

"We haven't even _started_ yet." Grune sighed. "It's damn well defended!"

Nobby barged forwards.

"'Ere, sir. These old locks are _dead_ easy! I could walk in with my eyes closed!"

A set of lock-picks appeared from nowhere, and Nobby enthusiastically set to. He was just about to swing the door open when Grune restrained him.

"Full marks for speed, Mr Nobbs" he said, wiping his hand on his jacket. "Zero for caution. You simply do not know what is on the other side of this door."

"It's just _flowers,_ sir" Nobby said.

"We will see" Grune said, assembling a mirror on a stick. Meanwhile, Sally said, urgently,

"I'm reading two. There's a sort of sentience there but it's dull, sluggish. Definitely not human. One living creature each side of the door."

Grune was manoeuvring the mirror through the letterbox and swinging it to try to see what was in the shop. Thern her grunted, and tugged the stick. Something tugged back.

"Hmm. Must have got it caught."

He tugged again, two-handedly, The whole of the stick emerged from the letterbox, but distorted and twisted. A thick sturdy creeper was wrapped around it, at least an inch thick with wicked-looking hooks and suckers. It would not let go.

Nobby drew his sword.

"No." Joan said, firmly. We can't leave a trace that we've been here. If we go chopping her plants up, she'll _know_. Some other way."

"Nobby, blow cigarette smoke over it!" Sally urged. "That works on wasps and bees!"

Nobby took the ever-present dimp from behind his ear and fumbled for a match. Grune, meanwhile, had pulled a good six feet worth of creeper through the letterbox that still refused to surrender the mirror.

"Take a picture, Joan! See if we can get this identified!"

Joan fumbled in her bag for the night iconograph, and lined up a shot. It was rather obscured by Nobbs blowing clouds of smoke over the creeper, to no perceptible effect, but the effect on the vine was electric. All six feet stood stiff and straight and it let go of the mirror. Then it retreated inside the shop, slamming the letterbox closed behind it.

Joan and Sally looked at each other.

"It must have been the camera. Maybe those things see in the infrared. When I triggered the night-flash, we were unharmed but it overloaded its reception cells. We blinded it!"

"That's what I sensed inside. No wonder it didn't register as human or animal. It's _plant_ intelligence!" Sally breathed.

"And you'd have walked straight in, Mr Nobbs" Grune observed. "Over-confidence!"

"So what now?

"There's another way" Sally said. But I'll need your help, Joan. Can you hold your cloak up, wide as you can spread it, and if these two gentlemen look the other way? Thanks…"

Joan heard the gentle thumps of a Watchwoman's suddenly vacated uniform hitting the ground. Then a cloud of bats billowed up from behind her cloak. The larger part of the cloud spiralled upwards and held station at rooftop level. Six or seven, however, zoomed in for the letterbox. Understanding, Grune gingerly held it open as the bats zipped through at high speed. No sounds were heard from inside the shop for some time. Joan began to worry slightly.

Then the cloud of bats zoomed down again. Joan held the cloak wide as they coalesced into a naked Sally, who scrabbled for her uniform.

"Nobby, lock that door over!" she shouted. "The rest of you, look innocent! Trouble's coming!"

Joan leapt to assist Sally with doing up her breastplate as a coach rounded the corner at some speed. It stopped at Bellamy's. And the two people who got out, looking disgruntled, were Lord Downey and Commander Vimes. Vimes was in ceremonial uniform, Downey in his finest. From the smell of port and cigars, Joan deduced they'd been dragged from an otherwise acceptable civic function somewhere.

Vimes took a drag of his cigar. After a well-judged silence, he said

"The Patrician just now asked me what I proposed to do about Watch personnel thought to be making an illegal search in a florists' shop on Pelicool Steps. I'm _really_ glad to see my patrol is _outside_ the premises, no doubt having found good reason to speak to two Assassins located in the vicinity."

"The Patrician also asked me if I'd sanctioned a surveillance operation in Pelicool Steps." Downey added. "When I said that I knoew of none, he advised me to come out and take a look, as a florists' shop here appears to have attracted the attention of an extraordinary number of Assassins tonight. I have no doubt that Miss Band and her class were on the outside of the building perfectly legitimately. But, Mr Nivor?"

"Walking the lady home after a _very_ satisfactory dinner, Master!" he replied, unhesitatingly. "I can well recommend _Bocca di Sciocco, _just down the Steps here!"

Downey nodded.

"Just don't give in to temptation, _please_." he said. "I can perfectly assure you that Mr Boggis is at his most aggravating whenever he speaks to me from a position of superiority, because he has a genuine grievance. I'm relying on you not to give him one. That is all, and I will see you both in the morning." He turned, and got back into the coach without looking back.

"How did Vetinari find out?" Sally asked, baffled.

Vimes grinned, mercilessly.

"Well, never assume the gargoyles around any potential crime scene are always going to be _ours_, Constable von Humpeding.. They're not Assassins' Guild employees, either."

Vimes paused to let the implications sink in.

"And by the way, you only have three fingers on your left hand, I'd get it back up to five as soon as I could."

Vimes nodded, and went back to the coach. Soon, it drove off.

Gingerly, Nobby propped the letterbox at Bellamy's open again. One after the other, several bats zoomed out and reunited with her left arm. After a succession of actinic flashes, Sally counted her fingers and flexed. _Yup, five. Back to normal. _

She closed her eyes, as if listening to an inner report.

"There are large, very large, carnivorous plants on either side of the door which stand taller than a man.. The moment any intruder steps inside, they're programmed to grab and kill. Their pots stand on wheeled trollies, so they can be wheeled around the shop as needed. She keeps them hungry so they'll be sharp on their guard duties. The back door is similarly guarded. Oh, and anyone dropping in through the skylight drops right on top of a killer cactus with razor-sharp hooks and barbs.

"There are locked doors inside that I can't penetrate, even as a bat. At least one person has died in there during the last year. This Mrs Bellamy has got something to hide, alright!"

Joan and Grune went home in silence. The attempt to break into Bellamy's having failed, they'd have to come up with a new strategy. But how?

* * *

**(1) **Found in the desert country of the Eastern Howondaland Central Plain just south of Klatch. Man-tall and with unyielding natural spines, hooks and barbs up to six inches long and of razor-sharpness, this plant has been traditionally used by Red Indians for amusement and entertainment, (in the perfect holistic balance with their natural environment for which they are justly famous). The Apaches are particularly proud of this part of their natural environment, and cannot resist showing it off to captives.

**(2) **See _**Pyramids. **_

**(3) **But as less favoured, quiet, sensible, hard-working girls with their feet on the ground the Disc over have always said, albeit unheeded and from someway behind the admiring throng surrounding their prettier friends, "Ain't that the way it is!" Ref. Glenda Sugarbean to Juliet Collop, or Agnes Nitt to Christine, or perhaps a younger Esme Weatherwax about a younger Gytha Ogg…

**(4) **This was Ankh-Morpork, after all, and Davinia knew her market.

**(5) **On Roundworld, the Roman philosopher Pliny looked south into the dark unexplored continent, on which the Romans only had the northern shore, and reflected _Ex Africa, simper aliquid nova_ - _There's always something new out of Africa. _


	9. Johanna's Brainwave

_**The MGC returns? C9**_

Civic unrest was breaking out in the City. Most specifically, a series of volatile factors were coming together in the Diplomatic Quarter of the City of Ankh, in much the same way that sweet spirits of nitre come together with cellulose and glycerine in an alchemist's fume cupboard to create a vigorous and equally evil-smelling exothermic reaction.

Most of the foreign Embassies and High Commissions in Ankh-Morpork are located in the Hubwards part of the City of Ankh, as far away from downtown Morpork and as close to the Patrician's Palace as they can get. **(1)**

A fairly typical overseas legation is the Embassy of the Union of Rimwards Howondaland, a former ducal mansion set in extensive gardens just off Scoone Avenue.

**Ambassade van die Verenigde Republiek van Strandvarts Howondalaand**

**Embassy of the Republic of the Union of Rimwards Howondaland**

The domestic policies of this nation have frequently aroused criticism and protest for their perceived repressive nature and arbitrary racial judgements. On most days there is likely to be a protest picket outside the gates, usually composed of politically-minded students from Unseen University and other educational establishments around Ankh-Morpork. No students from the Assassins' Guild attend – they are generally kept too busy for this, and anyway would be more temperamentally inclined to be_ inside_ the Embassy, having a gracious drink with the Ambassador, regardless of his nation's domestic politics. But the Thieves' Guild School has a reputation for breeding right-on politicised students, the Art College produces its crop of political idealists, and the university has always had a vocal minority of students who firmly believe Wizardry should be a non-hierarchical democracy where all have the same status. **(2) **

As Patrician Vetinari has commented, the Workers' Revolutionary Party founders on three claims: (one) there wasn't a single _worker_ among its membership, only _students_; (two) it wasn't especially revolutionary, in that it advocated a course of action known to have been tried and failed across the Disc at several points during its history; and (three) he doubted any of them could unbend enough, nor indeed manifest the essential organisation skills, to be able to throw a party of any kind.

However, they had enough mental acuity to chant slogans and wave banners, which is what twenty or thirty of the Party faithful were doing outside the Howondalandian Embassy that morning. They were kept at bay by, and quite possibly outnumbered by, the suspicious and piggy-eyed guardsmen at the Embassy gates, and by others patrolling inside the grounds.

A little further out were Ankh-Morpork City Watch crowd control barriers, painted black and yellow, where six or seven Watchmen converged, pointedly, in such a way as to physically put themselves between the demonstrators and the Embassy guards. The barriers also kept at bay a group of idle-minded passers-by, who were watching the street theatre presented by the situation, in the hope that it was going to turn violent at any second. There was also a news crew from the _Ankh-Morpork Times_, present here for much the same reason.

Sam Vimes sighed, fully aware that the Howondalandian embassy guards had been selected for an overseas posting on the basis of their muscle and the visible deterrent they posed, rather than for their brains. He knew the _real_ Embassy security was in the hands of other, more intelligent, largely plain-clothes people, whom Ankh-Morpork had been obliged to dignify with the word _diplomat_. As part of his job, Sam Vimes had to accept that it was perfectly legitimate for an overseas Embassy to bring in its own complement of Guards from home, so as to secure the Embassy premises against intrusion and carry out any policing tasks that needed to be done inside the Embassy grounds, which convention accepted was the sovereign soil of that state where its own native laws and customs applied.

Vimes generally didn't have a problem with this: he recruited and trained Watchmen and Palace Guards, some of whom, in the normal course of events, would be offered overseas postings as Embassy guards at Ankh-Morpork's diplomatic premises around the Disc. He also had the Diplomatic Protection and Liaison section of the Cable Street Particulars, whose job it was to keep tabs and friendly contact with foreign Watchmen and Guardsmen based at their nations' Embassies, High Commissions and Legations in Ankh-Morpork. Some of the Embassy guards in the City had even been trained by Vimes at the Watch barracks: they'd passed out as Watchmen, done a probationary term in Ankh-Morpork, and returned home to use their expertise in their native Watches. Then they'd got diplomatic protection postings, and returned.

This led to a lot of ad-hoc understandings and friendly agreements across national borders, which had done a lot for crimefighting in the City and mutual understanding of where both sides stood.

But the bloody _Howondalandians_, Vimes sighed. They seemed to want to go all-out to provoke trouble and wouldn't bend an inch. Oh, Van Der Graaf was basically OK – he was the classic example of a rational man far from Home whose superiors appeared to have no idea of his day-to-day difficulties, and who was consequently left to interpret their irrelevant, impossible and self-contradictory instructions as best he could. As a near-neighbour, Sybil had invited the Ambassador and his wife to dinner on several occasions, and after some initial misunderstandings – Vimes had made it abundantly clear that _he_ would provide any Guards, should Guards be needed, thank you very much - had come to grudgingly like the clever and urbane diplomat. They'd also been able to thrash out a rough-and-ready Agreement concerning policing demonstrations at the Embassy.

Vimes had made it abundantly clear that Howondalandian law stopped at the Embassy gates. Outside those gates, he, Vimes, was the law. "You can post Guards in the street immediately outside those gates, and I accept they have a common-law right to prevent any uninvited persons from entering the premises. If attacked, they have a right to self-defence. But if any of them hits out unprovoked at an unarmed demonstrator, he's in _my _cells for assault. And use of words like "nigger" and "kaffir" at any Ankh-Morporkian citizen with a darker colour of skin will _not_ be allowed to pass unremarked, Pieter. Do you hear me?"

Vimes had reluctantly agreed that inside the Embassy compound, he had no jurisdiction, and the security guards could freely apply Howondalandian law. It would then be for Vetinari to pursue allegations of lethal or unwarranted force, or illegal detention, used against Ankh-Morporkian citizens. He, Vimes, would ensure any demonstrator so ill-advised as to consider illegally entering the Embassy compound was made aware that they were putting themselves outside the reach of Ankh-Morporkian law, and only had themselves to blame if they were damaged in any way.

And then there was the other thing: Vimes lived on the same street as the Embassy. The residents of Scoone Avenue saw his living on the street as a bonus, and thought of him as their Neighbourhood Watch, despite his protestations that Neighbourhood Watching doesn't work that way. Willikins was by now adept at fielding protests from neighbours about those scruffy idle students demonstrating at the Embassy _again_, could Sir Samuel do anything about it, as soon as he can, please?

To keep his neighbours happy, even though policing this demo was perfectly within the competence of Sergeant Colon, Vimes had made a point of being seen to walk down the street, to put in some time with the Watch contingent there.

"Sorry, Fred" Sam apologised. "You know it doesn't need me, but I live on this street and it keeps the neighbours off my back if I'm seen to be here. It's still your command."

"Glad to have you here, Sam. There's hardly any real bother at these things, just a lot of standing around wasting time." Fred Colon remarked. Vimes nodded: _standing around wasting time, _with an implicit low risk of being killed or injured, was ninety per cent of Fred's definition of Watchmanship. He was good at it.

"They come along, shout their slogans, wave their placards. That _mob _in the Embassy stare back and make the odd threat. We stand in the middle and keep 'em apart. Then everyone goes home for tea, or those bloody students realise the pubs are open. We all do what we have to and everyone's happy". Fred said, summing it up.

"Looks like your relief's arriving." Sam said, nodding up the street. Sergeant Angua was walking up the street with six assorted Watchmen in her train, including Inspector Loudweather of the Particulars.

"On time, too. We can have a quick handover then I'll send these lads back to the Yard. What's the news on this new mass murderer, sir?"

Vimes sighed.

"The latest reports say the joint investigation's identified a very plausible suspect. But there's nothing absolute yet that pins it to this person beyond all doubt. I got dragged out of a civic reception last night to investigate a report some of the Watch were getting over-enthusiastic and were trying to search a suspect workplace without a warrant. Might have been embarrassing, but Downey's Assassins were getting over-enthusiastic too, about the same place.

"Put it bluntly: we're getting more and more sure of who we're looking for. I've got André on the case building up reports and profiles on the prime suspect. Her business is being discreetly watched night and day. We know she shuts up shop every evening with the tightest possible security, suggesting there's something to hide. Sally is positive somebody actually died in that shop not too long ago. But we got no official report of any disturbance or crime there. But we can't proceed until we've got hard evidence or unless she gets careless and gives herself away. All the usual frustrations, Fred."

"How did Vetinari get to find out, sir?"

Vimes grimaced.

"We posted a gargoyle to watch over that shop and see who went in and out. So did Vetinari. If he's taking an interest, Fred, it'll be like that business with the Sanderson-Reeves woman all over again. We do the work, we're just about to lift the prime suspect, and then Vetinari intervenes and gives her to the bloody Assassins."

"You have to admit, sir, while you wouldn't want to get too close to her, Miss Sanderson-Reeves has come on a long way since she was given parole. His Lordship might be right when he says some people are too valuable to hang!"

"Lipwig, for one". Vimes paused, and spat out a name, with feeling, _Albert Spangler. _And Miss Sanderson-Reeves. You might be right, Fred. At least a whole generation of noble daughters are realising food doesn't come out of servants, which is a good thing. I also hear she's strict about making sure young Venturi and Selachii and Rust girls wash up and clean up afterwards – to her satisfaction!"

Vimes and Colon permitted themselves a contented grin, then got into the minutae of the handover. This was interrupted by the sound of a clattering coach. Colon looked up.

"Oh, one of _theirs_." he said, with distaste. "Left-hand drive position for the coachman because they drive on the wrong side of the road out there. And bloody _Corpse Diplomat-ee-queue_ plates. They're the bane of my bloody life in Traffic Control. Park where they like, go where they want, break the speed limits, and you can't get fines money off them! Arrest them and they complain to His Lordship, who gets all sarcastic about it!"

Fred Colon, an equitable man by nature, rarely got angry. But foreign diplomats using their CD plates to escape traffic fines was an issue that got him really _intense_. As head of the Traffic Division, he felt it was really taking the piss, and a personal affront.

Angua gave Fred's arm a reassuring pat.

"Thanks, miss" he said. "Hold on, something's happening… we've got a runner!"

The coach, belonging to the Howondalandian Embassy, was by custom crewed with black servants imported from Home. This had created a problem possibly unique in the experience of both cultures.

To White Howondalandians, black servants were taken for granted. They were cheap, freely available, and could be replaced swiftly if they failed to give satisfaction. Having a complement of domestic staff to do all the routine, boring, and dirty things in life, was so commonplace in White Howondalandian society that the first diplomatic missions sent out had really felt the privation at having to do menial work for themselves. Therefore, black servants were recruited at home, and carefully screened for loyalty, docility and reliability, before being shipped to overseas Embassies to continue serving their white masters.

This worked so long as they were carefully kept confined to the Embassy compound, where the various racial segregation acts and pass laws beloved of the apartheid state could be strictly enforced. And most of the time it worked: the servants sent over were too well conditioned, or cowed, or otherwise accustomed to their lot, to do anything other than faithfully serve as they always had. Such meagre wages as they received were carefully saved and sent back Home to support extended families in the townships and Bantustans. To the whites, it proved the system worked.

But some blacks, particularly those higher up the responsibility structure, had to be allowed outside passes to go out and buy food, drink, other goods and services, for the Embassy community. Maidservants had to accompany the baas-lady on shopping trips and carry her bags. This exposed Howondalandian blacks to dangerous influences in the city of Ankh-Morpork, where the pass laws could not reach, and petty apartheid had no writ. Here the black servants saw black people like themselves, perhaps receiving casual random racism, as no city is perfect, but on the whole acknowledged as equals and interacting with local whites as equals. Some of the more daring Bantus and Xhosis thought about this. And one day, Katerina de Mauritz, Embassy social secretary, snapped her fingers for her maidservant to pick up and carry the bag containing the clothing she'd just bought in Boggi's . There was no response. She looked again. Three or four unattended bags were sitting there on the carpet. But there was no maidservant. She had absconded, preferring to take her chances in an Ankh-Morpork where all races are more-or-less equal.

Katerina had tried to report the loss at a Watchhouse. A disinterested Watchman had taken the details.

"One _kaffir. _What's a_ kaffir, _miss_?"_

"You know. The same es a _nigger_!"

It hadn't helped that a brown-skinned constable had asked to take over the inquiry. _A bleddy coloured auxiliary! _She'd complain!

"Let's start again, miss. You report that your maidservant has run away from your employment whilst accompanying you on a shopping trip. Your maid is _a person of colour_, yes? Good. How old? Physical shape? Any distinguishing features? What's her name?"

"How should I know all _thet_?" Katerina demanded, indignantly. "She was just a ni…"

Constable Visit waved a finger, warningly.

"A bleck servant. You don't esk their _names_!"

"So we have an illegal immigrant of Howondalandian origin, an IC3, **(3), **possibly between fifteen and fifty, who has run away from her employment at the Howondalandian Embassy, preferring the uncertainty of living rough in our fair city, to a roof over her head and three meals a day at the Embassy."

Visit shook his head, as if in disbelief.

"I don't know. Some people are just _ungrateful_, aren't they?"

* * *

The un-named maid was the first _runner_ from the Embassy's indentured staff. She was not by any means the last.

This had caused diplomatic ructions, with the Embassy complaining to Vetinari that Vimes' Watch seemed positively _disinterested_ in recapturing escaped black servants.

Vimes had pointed out that illegal entry into the City was an offence, yes, but it had to jostle for priority with a thousand other things that the Watch considered to be equal or greater candidates for its attention. If we catch any of your runaways, and it can be proven beyond all doubt that they are Howondalandian citizens who have illegally entered this city, then you can by all means claim them back. But don't hold your breath. And by the way, do _not_ send your goons out looking for them either. Haven't I told you, their writ ends at your front gate?

This referred to a fairly recent incident in a Morporkian pub where the Embassy's Howondalandian Watch went to drink and let off steam. One of the embassy guards had recognised a _kaffir_ working there, one who had run from the Embassy, and foolishly tried to essay a citizen's arrest using what, at home, would have been unremarkable tactics from a Watchman to a non-white arrestee. The pub landlord had intervened, furious at this treatment of a damn good employee, applying a barman's friend to the Boor's skull. The fight had escalated, with Ankh-Morporkian citizenry (ever on the side of the underdog) taking the part of the poor bugger who'd escaped from the Embassy, and a minor replay of the Boor War had ensued in the street outside, drawing in forty or fifty Watchmen and necessitating Sergeant Detritus fire a warning shot in the air before it was quelled. The resultant window-shaking sonic boom and firework display in the sky had forced silence, and Vimes' men had moved in to make arrests, with the absconded black servant mysteriously disappearing in the crowd, unfortunately.

After this, the ambassador had authorised the building of the Springboek Club in the Embassy grounds, for Howondalandians wanting to unwind over a drink. It seemed safest to keep it in the family.

And now the certainties of the demo were dissipating, as a black footman, taking advantage of the temporary delay at the gates, and attraction being focused elsewhere, took his chance to to run for freedom.

The sight of a running man touches a deep-seated reflex in Watchmen. Straight away, four or five of the Embassy Guard set off in got pursuit. One was tripped by a demonstrator, and another fell over him. This summoned more guards from inside the embassy compound, who raced for the gate and a legitimate chance to crack a few skulls.

Vimes and several of his coppers set off to pursue the fleeing servant, who wore the orange-and-gold embassy servants' livery. Leaving Angua and several others to pursue, and noting that as if by some sort of magic, more and more idle-minded bystanders were rushing into the street to watch the show, Vimes intercepted the Howondalandian Watch with a raised hand, which said "HALT!" in any language.

"Get out of the bleddy way, man! We went thet nigger!" a florid Boor guard demanded, reaching for his _sjaembok. _

"You've got no jurisdiction on this street." Vimes said, flatly.

"And you call me "Sir", you horrible article! And I'll tell you this for nothing, carry on reaching for that bloody whip and I'll rip your arm off!"

Vimes stepped forward into the Boor's personal space and eyeballed him.

"We're in _hot trod,_ man….sir! _Hot pursuit!_ "the Boor spluttered. Vimes nodded, knowing him to be within his rights: he'd done a similar thing in Bonk, chasing Wolfgang von Überwald down after the incident at the Ankh-Morpork Embassy, with Capton Tantony of the Bonk Watch accepting the primal law of _hot trod_. **(4)**

_But what if the law they're enforcing is a rotten and revolting one? The only reason that poor bugger ran is because life with a black skin in that country isn't a barrel of laughs. And I bet this brute's used that whip on somebody in the past few days or weeks. Well, at least I've held them up._

Vimes stepped aside. "Constable Haddock? Constable Fidden? Escort our guests and see they don't exceed their powers."

The mixed group of Watchmen set off after the escapee.

Vimes looked around at the sudden chaotic scene, and sighed. There'd _definitely _be complaints from the neighbours tonight. But there was Willikins and a group of servants from the Ramkin household, no doubt come out to watch the scene and cheer indiscriminately at the fighting… two or three of his Watchmen were mixing it with the Boor guards, who'd rushed the demonstrators to play catch-up and get a few punches and blows in. Two or three of the students were lying, groaning or otherwise incapacitated: his Watchmen were pitching in to drive the Boors back to the Embassy gates, pointing out that it's _our_ job to sort these stroppy bastard students out, thank you very much.

Fred Colon had organised a couple of troll constables to grab the riot barriers, and physically use them to drive the onlookers back to a safe distance. The crowd was growling now, and insults were being thrown at the Boors, and, oh no, some of those hotheads are shouting things like like "Remember Magersfontein!" and "My grand-dad was at Spion Kop, you arrogant bloody Boor!"

To which the Boors were calling back "Yes, and we won _both_ bettles, Morporkian, so _voetsaak_!"

But they were falling back to the Embassy gates, and _shit, here come the first cobblestones._

"Fred, get in there with a squad, will you, and nick somebody for damaging the highway and throwing rocks?"

Colon nodded acknowledgement, and called for Bluejohn and Flint to follow him. The crowd retreated from the onrushing trolls, and Vimes speculated for a moment on how the Boor War might have worked out if we'd had trolls in the Army then. He spotted a new complication: at the other side of the street, a party of Assassins who were watching the fight with interest, but making no move to join in. It looked like a teacher from the Guild School – purple sash – escorting a party of students. Seven or eight of 'em. _Well, they're not causing any trouble, and people should be bright enough not to cause trouble for them. _

The Embassy gates had opened to allow the retreating Guardsmen to enter, as well as the delayed coach. Vimes thought he could see Ambassador van der Graaf on the Embassy side of the gate, taking a report and issuing orders. He moved towards the gates, right hand raised and empty. The ambassador acknowledged him with a nod, and they went to confer through the fence.

Meanwhile, Sergeant Colon had run into a problem in the crowd. The trolls had made two arrests for throwing stones, but that wasn't the issue. The issue was a huddled, shivering, black-skinned figure in orange and white servant's livery, who was huddled on the ground trying to make himself look small.

"Please, baas… don't make me go beck!"

Colon sighed. He knew his duty. This was technically an illegal immigrant caught while trying to enter the city . As a Watchman, he had to detain the poor sod so as to deport him from Ankh-Morpork and repatriate him to his native country. Just march him back to that gate and hand him over…

The problem was that they were in the thick of over a hundred Ankh-Morporkian citizens, all of whom grudgingly acknowledged that Ol' Stoneface had the right to arrest stonethrowers, we're not arguing about _that_, but this poor sod was running for his _life_, wasn't he? Hand him back and they'll at least have him whipped as a warning to the others. Treat 'em like _dogs_ in there, they do, Mr Colon… and what's one more poor bugger trying to get by, in this city? Neither here nor there.

It had been Nobby Nobbs who had arrested, or at least halted, the runner. Maybe something in Nobbs' habitual demeanour had screamed "friend" to the fugitive. Whatever the reason, the crowd had gathered around them as they shared a cigarette, shielding them from the sight of all, and Colon, arriving with a snatch-squad of trolls, had landed right in the middle of it. Colon reflected, mainly on his own chances of coming out alive if he tried to enforce the letter of the law. Besides, those bloody Boors got _right_ up his nose. How much did they owe to the Traffic Division in unpaid fines and contemptuously torn-up tickets now… seven thousand eight hundred and sixty-five dollars. _That _was how much. Colon, a meticuluous man, kept precise records of what each foreign embassy owed in fines for traffic misdemeanours. Periodically, Sam would lay the figures in front of Vetinari, just to annoy him.

Colon smiled. He might be racist in a low-level glowering ignorant inarticulate sort of way, which was so much on general principles that it utterly failed to offend anybody, but one thing he hated, _really_ hated, more than illegals coming in to pinch our jobs and our women (when they weren't sitting on their bums expecting hand-outs), was smug foreign diplomats pointing to the CD plates on their coaches, and ripping up the parking tickets. **(5)**

He smiled at the Howondalandian.

"This is your lucky day." he said. He turned to a familiar face in the crowd. "Ray, I ain't seen him. Can you get him out of here without nobody else noticing?"

The tension eased and people started smiling. Colon called his trolls and their arrestees together. Nobby joined them, and the crowd parted to allow them to go. Behind them, a Howondalandian refugee was being discreetly hustled to freedom…

_No, I'll hand over their asylum-seekers when they start paying their bloody parking tickets, _Colon decided. _Until then, what's that word they use? They can all go **voetsaak.** Bloody Boors._

"What's it all about, Fred?" Nobby asked. "Why do we only have a problem with _this_ embassy's staff doin' a runner?"

"It's this _apartheid _thing, Nobby" Fred replied. "Captain Carrot explained the word to me. It means _Apart-hood_ in proper language. Seperation. You have your white people and you have your black people and they live and work apart."

"Except when the white people needs servants to cook and clean and wash up for them" Nobby mused.

"Seems a sensible idea, to me." Colon stated. "I mean , you're a big-shot farmer or a diamond dealer, you speak Morporkian – well, after a fashion, anyway. You live in a proper house and you eats proper food. What are you going to have in common with a native living in a mud hut and callin' himself a Zulu or a Bantu or whatever? Sounds right. Sounds practical. We could do with somethin' like that here. you know, they have _their_ zones of the city and we have _ours_. Catch a black in the whites-only area without a pass to say he's got a right to be there…"

"As a cleaner, cook, domestic servant or whatever…" Nobby chimed in,

"..and you arrest him, bang him up. Everyone knows where they stand then. No nonsense from the blacks, they know their place and woe betide _them_ if they get cheeky!"

Nobby was in a thoughtful silence for a moment or two. Then he spoke.

"But Fred, how's that any different from here?"

"I'm not catching your meaning, Nobby"

"Round here, right, Nob Hill. Forty-odd years ago, when we was both starting out, both of us from Morpork, too poor to afford a pot to piss in, if we _dared_ come round these streets, where all the nobs are, we'd get stopped, right? If you couldn't prove you were here for a reason, right, let's say you worked as a servant for one of the big nobby households, any Lord could have his men beat seven kinds out of you, and then throw you in the Tanty for malicious lingering. They had their zone of the city – here – and we poor buggers had _ours._ Morpork and the Shades, right? Cross into the rich-only zone without a pass, and the Watch nicked you. If you were lucky. The old Lord Ramkin had my dad whipped and put into the Tanty, for walking on this street without leave."

Nobby paused, and asked

"Ain't that a sort of apartheid, sarge? That poor bugger dint ask to be born black. You and me certainly dint ask to be born poor."

Colon sighed, having again been out-philosophised by Nobbs. The feeling never got any easier with the years. **(6)**

Johanna Smith-Rhodes watched them pass and waited for the last of the confusion to die down. Then she nodded to her pupils, and led them towards the Embassy gates.

They were learning: she'd had to restrain deKlerk and Botha from going chasing after the luckless _kaffir, _but they'd all grasped that part of the profession involved silently watching, observing, and noticing things whilst being disregarded on the fringes of events. And Guild students were discouraged from joining in demonstrations at the Embassy gates: to Johanna's mind, that also meant discouraging _sympathisers_ from mixing it and making a bad situation worse. And she'd bet a few _rand_ on that servant never being recaptured, and joining the ever-growing ethnic minority of stateless black Howondalandians in this city.

_Ah well. Not my problem._

A lingering demonstrator attempted to press a pamphlet on her. She glared at him.

"Do you think for one moment I'd eccept thet? I'm one of the _enemy_, you bleddy fool. Now get out of my way!"

Johanna felt ashamed of being rude and abrupt, just for a second, then shrugged. It wouldn't do to be friendly to a demonstrator right on the Embassy steps where possibly inconvenient people were watching. Besides, she reflected, this was a student political agitator, a longhand way of saying "self-righteous idiot."

She passed by the Watch with hardly a nod (anyway, none of her particular friends were there), and announced herself in Vondalaans to the surly-looking gate guard.

"Johanna-Smith-Rhodes. _Citizen._ I have with me eight fellow citizens who are all enrolled students at the Assassins' Guild School. We are expected."

She nodded as the guard went from slouching to full attention in less than an eyeblink. The name of Smith-Rhodes still carried weight, then. Or perhaps it was just the fact that the Ambassador was her uncle, and this was known.

"Hello, Johanna!"

Katerina van Mauritz. Well, it didn't hurt to be friendly, although Johanna had known Katerina at school: it amazed her that somebody could be the same age as her, work in the same City, and in some respects not to have grown or changed at all.

"The Ambassador sends apologies. As you can see, we've had a little _bother_. He has asked me to show you all to the reception room and to make you comfortable."

Johanna followed the pupils into the reception room, where servants stood ready to offer light refreshments. These little receptions occurred once or twice a term. The School encouraged pupils from other countries to maintain their links with their homelands, and she didn't mind shepherding her White Howondalandian pupils to the Embassy and presenting them to her uncle. It was a break. The kids would get a taste of home, indulgent treatment, reassurance that Howondaland hadn't forgotten them, and an evening away from the School. It was also useful training in presenting yourself acceptably at formal occasions.

She nodded, noting that several of the older pupils had picked up the habit of saying "thank you" to the servants taking away coats and cloaks and bringing them drinks. The Guild insisted on correct behaviour towards servants and ensured it was taught to pupils.

Katerina raised a well-groomed eyebrow.

"What _do_ you teach them, Johanna? Oh – here's the Ambassador."

Johanna greeted her uncle and aunt, first formally and then informally.

"That's another one gone, then. We'll have to inform Home." he sighed.

"Do you _really _follow through the threat to jail family members if they defect once they're here?" Johanna asked.

"It's a distasteful business. But you have to deter them somehow." her uncle said. "And we keep losing them!"

"This City is too soft." Katerina declared. "It has no idea about dealing with blacks. They even allow them into the _Watch_!"

"So, if we assume Lord Vetinari has no immediate intention of enacting the racial separation laws as we know them at home, how do you propose we deter our servants from running away?" the Ambassador asked. "People, black or white, will choose the best circumstances available in which to live. Some things are universal across the races!"

Katerina reddened, and went silent.

"What beats me" Johanna said, testing the waters, "is why you don't go to Mr Keeble's job shop and ask him to provide white domestic staff. There are _thousands _in this city with experience of domestic service, and Keeble is _very_ good!"

Her aunt looked totally aghast. So did Katerina.

"You _cannot_ have _white_ people doing _menial_ work!" her aunt declared.

_She couldn't have looked more horrified if she'd been asked to do something unspeakable with a Zulu warrior,_ Johanna thought.

"Why ever not, dear Aunt Frieda?" Johanna asked, pushing the point.

"It's unheard of! It's _demeaning_! White people, doing black work!"

"But in this city, different standards apply and there is a different way of thinking. Virtually all the servants at the Assassins' Guild are white, and they appear to enjoy what they do. And you _must_ have been guests at the big households where you would have had white servants waiting on you? I saw Mr Willikins in the street, Lady Ramkin's butler, and _he_ does not appear to be demeaned by his job. Quite the opposite, in fact!"

"Now I know you're only trying to _help_, Johanna…" her aunt began. Johanna knew the code. This meant "You are being wholly impractical and unrealistic to the point where you are trying us."

Aunt Frieda changed the conversation.

"What do you think of the flowers, Johanna? Katerina found us a very clever florist. Apparently she does Howondalandian specials in her hothouses."

"Very nice, Aunt Frieda." Johanna said, politely, surveying the flower arrangements and table displays. An idle thought struck her.

"Who do you use, Katti?"

"I found this _amazing_ place on Pelicool Steps. Mrs Bellamy is so very clever with flowers! She's a real artist!"

"Is that _so_…!"

Johanna had heard about the abject failure to get into Bellamy's for a covert look around. An idea was forming in her mind for how somebody could get in there legitimately and take all the time she needed for a specialized look-round. She turned to her old schoolmate. Normally, Johanna considered Katerina to be a rather dim fluffy airhead who was as interesting as a piece of bewilderbeeste spoor on the savannah. Now it would pay to touch base again.

"Katti, how long is it since we last went out for a sensible drink and some girl-talk? In a sensible language and not in the Morporkian we're forced to speak in this city?"

"Oh, too long!"

"Good. We can take in your florists' shop on the way. I know Lord Downey's been complaining about our floral bill…"

Johanna knew she'd have to run the idea past Uncle Piet, and she needed a particularly gifted Guild student to do her a favour, but as far as Davinina Bellamy was concerned, she'd be dealing with _two _accredited Embassy social secretaries in her shop….

Johanna smiled. She was glad she'd come here tonight.

* * *

**(1) **Except for the Lancastrian Embassy, which is a rather poky office two floors above a coal depot on the dockside, and those foreign nations too poor to afford the fabulous costs of prestigious real estate in Ankh.

**(2) **Of course, instead of the quasi-Tsarist tyranny of an Archchancellor and Faculty, you'd _**obviously**_ still need a People's Committee to run things, with a General Secretary to act as its democratically elected head. But the General Secretary would only ever be first among comrades, let's make that clear now. (Joseph Stalin, officially the democratically elected General Secretary of the People's Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, found it hard to keep a straight face sometimes...)

**(3)**Visit, who as an Omnian classes as an IC6, is using the British police shorthand for ethnicities, which runs

IC1=white north European

IC2=white south European

IC3=black

IC4=Asian

IC5=Chinese, Japanese or other Far East Asian

IC6=Arabic or north African

IC7 is just a police joke. IC7=_tantastic,_ and denotes the male/female IC1 who has just left a tanning shop, and has a wholly un-natural orange look to their skin.

**(4) **_**Hot Trod: **_in the debated border region between England and Scotland, it was accepted that Scottish border guards in hot pursuit could chase down their quarry into England, and vice-versa, demanding and receiving assistance from the host country. The right to pursue across borders is one of the oldest police conventions anywhere.

**(5) **Really true. London's Metropolitan Police have a shame-list of foreign embassies to Britain that use diplomatic immunity as a reason to refuse to pay parking fines and traffic violations. Top of the list, surprisingly, is the United States Embassy, who have chalked up over a _**million pounds**_ worth of fines that the State Department refuses to pay.

**(6) **Nobby has just encapsulated the reason why conservative-right parties in the West hated South African apartheid and had an interest in ending the system. Not because it discriminated against blacks – in a good capitalist society, not _everyone_ can be rich, the rich will need domestic servants, and the poor thereby get a chance to do a honest day's work, know their place, and learn respect for their social betters. It was just that the South Africans made the mechanism of a capitalist system too bleeding obvious. Too many people of the wrong sort were capable of following a Nobby Nobbs train of thought and concluding "whoa…wait a minute… it doesn't _just_ apply to Black South Africans…."


	10. The investigation proceeds

_**The MGC returns? C10**_

The joint investigation team reconvened, this time in a shabby but adequately furnished conference room on an upper floor of Pseudopolis Yard.

Chaired by Inspector Loudweather of the Cable Street Particulars, participants included Mr Smith and Mr Brown from QCIC, Joan Sanderson-Reeves, Alice Band and Johanna Smith-Rhodes of the Assassins' Guild, Sergeants Angua von Überwald and Cheery Littlebottom of the Watch, and an unidentified Dark Clerk from the Palace who gave his name as Mr _(Cough}, _whom all knew was Vetinari's representative.

This was an added pressure: if Vetinari had suddenly decided to take a direct interest, it was as good as being told that there was _no great rush _to bring about an end to the investigation.

Among case-files and notes on the table, open copies of the latest _**Tanty Bugle**_ and the most recent copies of the _**Times**_ served as a depressing reminder of the public interest there was in the case. The Bugle was still speculating wildly on the two latest murders, with a lurid headline and front-cover reconstructive art that loudly trumpeted _**NOT EVEN SAFE IN PRISON!**_, while the Times had a weighty editorial deploring that murders could even happen in the supposedly safe and secure regimen offered by the Tanty, and was mildly hinting that now could be the time for Sir Martin to stand down as Governor. This left was followed through with a straight right, lamenting the lack of progress made by the Watch in apprehending the serial killer active on our streets, the one vulgarly known as "The Marriage Guidance Counsellor", in honour, it seems, of the notorious mass-killer of some years ago.

The times asked how many more times this anonymous person was going to step out of the shadows and strike before the City Watch hunted them down. The editorial noted that as the original MGC had scored twenty-four not out before she was brought to book, and this appears to be only the current killer's tenth, it was very possible the City would be tormented for some time yet.

"Do you think, if I wrote them a polite letter to say I only inhumed eighteen, and not this silly figure of twenty-four that they keep plucking out of the air, would they publish it?" Joan sighed.

"There was good reason to believe it was twenty-four!" contended André.

"Maybe you had a copycat killer even back then!" Joan replied. "The idea of the Marriage Guidance Counsellor seems to have struck a _very_ big chord in the public imagination, after all!"

"_Half_ the public, anyway" murmured Alice. "No wonder Vetinari wanted it dealt with in private!"

"Then, _and _now!" Joan declared. "Which is why some woman's revived my old working name and taken it as her own. Damn' successfully, too."

There was a polite cough from the Dark Clerk.

"We _do_ seem to be straying off topic" André said. "Let's recap on the last murder and look at any new information we've got to progress the investigation. Sergeant Littlebottom?"

"Thank you, sir. I can now absolutely confirm that the lethal weapon used in the last murder, and which is present on iconographical evidence from three others, is the flower known as the Howondalandian Death Lily. I took a sample of the flower to the university, having been assured by Miss Smith-Rhodes that it poses no further danger after discharging its pollen. Professor Pennysmart, the Professor of Extreme Horticulture, was kind enough to perform an official identification of the plant for me and to confirm what Miss Smith-Rhodes had already assured us concerning its absolute lethality. The interesting thing was, sir, that he asked me if I'd got it from Bellamy's. Apparently, the suspect owns several hothouses where she breeds exotic specials. The Professor is one of her customers."

She paused, realising that she had the full attention of everyone sitting around the table.

"He explained to me that there's such a thing as a fancy of exotic flower enthusiasts in this city and nearby towns, who all grow and breed, if that's the right word, exotic tropical plants. There's actually quite a trade in buying and selling and bartering among enthusiasts. And most of them at one time or another go to Davinia Bellamy, because she's thought of as the absolute expert."

André nodded.

"Does this club have regular meetings? Open to all?"

"I believe they sponsor lectures on exotic plants, sir. Membership is by invitation only. Like dragon-owning, it's not a cheap hobby, as you need to be able to pay for the running of a hothouse and have the space for it. But the open lectures are open to all, for maybe sixpence a time."

" Interesting. Might be a way of infiltrating an agent, and getting into her shop and hothouses without arousing her suspicions. Well done, Cheery. And on the subject of getting into her premises, neither the Watch nor the Guild have had any success, I note. According to reports, the shop premises have disproportionately strong security, that you wouldn't normally expect a flower shop to have. This makes sense, as the Thieves' Guild haven't shown much interest in mixed bouquets and pot plants in the past. Florists' shops, especially ones in which no money has been left overnight, are well in the bottom fifty, according to statistics on shop and store burglaries.

"So we have to start asking what she has to hide. Constable von Humpedink, who I may need to remind some of you is a vampire, was able to perform a very limited investigation of the shop. She is firmly of the opinion that at some point in the last nine months, somebody has died in that building. She's a vampire. I don't doubt her. But I've checked back through crime reports, alarms and call-outs for the last year. Nothing from Bellamy to say she's under threat or her premises are being raided. Nothing from her neighbours to say they've heard or seen anything suspicious. No reports of a body. Yet Sally says somebody died there. She picked up on the trace."

"I patrolled down there at six this morning, sir. I normally don't like doing that because it worries the animals in Grace Speaker's pet shop, but it couldn't be helped." Angua said. "I remembered what Sally said about a death and I wondered if a werewolf's nose might pick up on things a vampire missed. Well, there's a very faint hint of a very old death, but it's overlaid with a lot of more recent smells and taints, more recent dead meat, animal in origin. A werewolf nose couldn't miss that, even though the dominant set of smells are of flowers, pollen, scent, sap, earth, potting compost. Why should a florist deal with dead animals?"

"I'll tell you why, m'dear" said Joan. "Take a look at these iconographs we took that night."

Joan passed a set of three green-tinged, oddly bleached out, iconograph pictures down the table. Angua shrugged. She looked perplexed.

"Nobby Nobbs blowing cigarette smoke?"

Then she looked again.

"Oh… I see… Mr Nivor, I believe, fighting that creeper thing with all the suckers."

"According to Sally, the creeper thing with the hooks and the suckers is part of the security system at that shop." Joan said, with a certain smugness.

"I spent a while in the Library, trying to track it down. I was able to make a very tentative identification of the plant it belongs to. Subject to expert confirmation, of course. I'm no expert, but that little devil matches the pictures and description of the Pyramid Strangler Vine of Sumtri and the Tezuman Jungle. A mature pyramid vine can colonise an entire pyramid**(1), **hence the name, and while most species are vegetarian, there are several known omnivores and strict carnivores in the family. They do have rudimentary light-sensitive cells on the creepers, by the way, linked to rather basic brains, which help them build up a picture of the size of animal that's just about to blunder their way. And the infra-red flash on the new iconographs blinds them a treat, something we should add to the standard operating procedure for dealing with this plant when we meet it."

"It must take some pruning to keep it room-sized." Alice noted.

"Apparently they can be trained and coppiced and cut back to a manageable size." Joan said. "I'd suspect our Davinia knows all about Agatean _bonsai _work to create miniature plants. Only in this case, it's bonzai'ing something that can grow three hundred feet high down to a more manageable six foot or so. Everything's a matter of _scale_, after all!"

"So she uses carnivorous plants as her security guards…" Mr Brown commented, slowly, looking ill.

"Which definitely explains the animal meat smells…" said Angua. "And Sally's being absolutely clear about the death in the shop."

"And let's say if some little tick of a Thief broke into her shop and didn't know what he was up against…" Joan thought out loud.

"That would explain why she didn't bother going to the Watch!" said Cheery. "And why there was no body to declare. She fed it to her plants!"

"How can we prove this? We still only have Sally's assertion, which by the way, I completely I trust, that a death happened in the shop. The rest is conjecture." said André, to bring the discussion back on tack.

"Tell me, how does the Thieves' Guild work?" Johanna asked. She'd been quiet up to now, but her interest was now aroused.

"With us, if we ere going out on a contract, we hev to register our interest, ensure a record is left of where we will be, and which contrect we ere pursuing. If time allows, we leave a copy of our operating plan in a safe place. This means that if we ere not beck by an egreed time, friends cen come out to look for us end ensure we ere not in trouble. Whet I em thinking is that if a Licenced Thief is going out on a mission for the Guild, they must do something like thet? End if a Thief has said they ere going to rob or burgle for the Guild on a perticuler street, end they do not return, does the Guild not hev a record of it?"

André nodded. The Dark Clerk, Mr _{Cough}, _looked at her.

"To ask the Thieves' Guild to consult its records for details of members who went missing, while engaged in Guild business, in the Pelicool Steps area. I believe they will co-operate with the Watch, if it means they can lay a fallen and currently missing member decently to rest. Leave that with me."

André smiled.

"I've had CSP agents out taking a look at the Bellamy house and gardens, and compiling a dossier on what we know about Mrs Bellamy" he said. "This isn't complete by any means, but we do know she has a house with a surprisingly large garden, by the standards of this City. It should be beyond the reach of the joint income she and her husband are on, as land is at a premium in this city, but the facts are that they live as owner-occupiers in the Nap Hill district of Ankh. I would suspect some other, undeclared, form of income bridges the gap and pays the mortgage, as the family don't appear to be in any financial distress. Her husband Peter Bellamy is a highly respected prison guard at the Tanty who is known to have refused bribes in the past. His integrity is established – after Bellyster, prison guards are regularly covertly watched and scrutinised - and pretty much untouchable. Which does rather tend to leave Davinia as the source of this undeclared third income."

"To be fair, part of it could come from dealing in rare and exotic plants" Cheery said. "Professor Pennysmart told me what some of them can fetch and, well, if Dwarfs had green fingers we'd give up digging for gold and take up horticulture."

"And she has hothouses in her garden." André mused. "I'd love to know what's inside them. From a safe distance, obviously."

"But we can't go in without a warrant. And we can't get a warrant unless we can prove for sure the poisonous plants are in there. And the only way to know for sure is to go and look." said Joan. She sighed. "Is it me, or are things getting a tiny bit _circular _here?"

"I hev en idea!" Johanna said, raising her hand.

"It is perfectly possible for one of us to enter that shop completely legitimetely, even to the extent where she is _invited _to take a close look et the stock end the premises by Mrs Bellamy."

"Please explain" said André. Johanna obliged him.

"I hev spoken ebout this plen to my onkle, the embessador" she said. "As the Embassy is the key to getting in end out of the place, it is only correct."

"And his opinion?"

"I reminded him that the Republic needs to work on its public image, as there hev been so meny little _misunderstandings _lately. Helping the City Watch and the Guild with their joint inquiries could perhaps be politically useful right now. He agrees, and I hev his permission to go ahead. By tomorrow evening we should hev an eccount of the inside of the shop for you. But whet ebout Mrs Bellamy?"

"Her history, as far as we've been able to reconstruct it, points to a normal upbringing with no traumas or wants or poverty. At age sixteen she left school - QCYL at Quirm, by the way - and took a college course in floristry. She started working for a florists' shop here in Ankh-Morpork and was so good at what she did that she was managing it by the age of nineteen. Despite he shop owner's pleas for her to stay, she took all the money she'd saved, plus a family legacy, and paid for a degree in botany at Brindisi University, which is regarded academically as one of the renowned centres of study in this subject. Now _this_ is where it gets interesting."

André paused.

"As you know, people trained by the Watch in Ankh-Morpork get everywhere on the Disc and they're a useful source of help when it comes to this sort of inquiry. Our man in Brindisi assures us Davinia is on their files for several reasons. There's a long-dormant file on student activists at the University, which was raised at the direct request of the Doge's secretariat. Her name appears as part of a radical student group who among many other things picketed the Howondalandian Embassy… and after yesterday I _do_ agree with that heartfelt groan, miss Smith-Rhodes. In a direct demonstration against the tyrannical power of the Doge of Brindisi, the City Guard was turned out with halberds to use some of that power on the students. However, a group of female students subverted this with a novel approach. Instead of throwing cobblestones at the Guard, those female students walked up to them and hung flower garlands over the blades of the halberds. Cleverly done."

"Nice idea!" agreed Joan. "It's damn hard to stab a young gel who's just smiled at you and given you flowers, and if you do, you're going to feel like a _complete _bastard.**(2)** Especially since she's not throwing bricks or bottles or insults or anything. And a Guardsman with flowers hanging off his weapon is going to look… well, less of a threat. Even without _**Times **_iconographers and reporters watching everything!"

"I hope it doesn't spread to here!" said Angua. "Student protestors are one thing, but as long as they're stupid and keep repeating the same things even though they don't work, they're easier to deal with. If they start getting intelligent and using subversive tactics that actually work, we're in trouble!."

"That's how she met her husband, anyway. Peter Bellamy was in the Brindisi Watch at the time. He resigned not too long after the flower-garland incident. Using flowers was Davinia's idea, by the way. Peaceful protest. But the other file is more interesting, if anything."

André grinned. "It's to do with the suspicious death of a teaching professor in the Faculty of Natural Science at Brindisi University. Apparently he was an unpleasant little man who tried to browbeat and blackmail female students into sex in exchange for better grades. Shortly after Davinia joined his classes, he took _very_ ill with an assortment of ailments. And died. The Brindisi Watch have her as a possible suspect, even though the case was officially closed. Her name figures as somebody whose stories to the Watch never _entirely_ tallied. There was always a tiny little discrepancy, or something slightly out, but nothing near conclusive enough to put her in the frame. Just Watchman's Intuition, more than anything else."

André looked down at the file.

"And her last term paper before the death concerned how certain exotic flower and plant extracts might be used as birth-control agents, with a warning caveat that over-exposure can render a man permanently infertile and in fact chemically castrated. The tutor who was killed was in some distress, apparently, having lost his sexual urge completely and finding no response nor reaction . He was pointing the finger at, and I quote, that young _vecchia _and insisting she not only poisoned him, but told him beforehand exactly what she proposed to do and why.

"They had to let her go – no real proof, just the odd coincidence of her term paper. But every Watchman's sense, our man said, was telling him she did it."

"_Vekkya_?" Johanna asked, baffled.

"_Vecchia_. In Brindisian, it can mean "_daft old lady who keeps too many cats_", but it's usually interpreted as "_witch_". said Alice Band, helpfully.

"Hmm. Could change things if she's also a bloody witch." Joan said, thoughtfully. "They're _damn_ hard to inhume. We don't take contracts on witches, generally speaking. There's a story that a contract was put out on one of the Weatherwax women of Lancre two hundred or so years ago. A total and utter shambolic fiasco of a job – more embarrassing than going after Commander Vimes. When a dirt-keen Assassin with twenty successful annulments to his name ended up abandoning the profession and joining one of the stricter Hublands temples as a novice priest, the then Dark Council discreetly ripped up that particular contract."

André, who'd had his own direct experience of Lancre witches,**(3) **nodded sympathetically.

"We don't believe she ever became a witch. She made friends with older witches in Brindisi and persuaded them that their knowledge of herbs and flowers should be recorded for posterity, and did some remarkable anthropological and botanical research work , but she didn't study the whole of the Craft with them. We do know from contemporaries that after graduation, she went to Lancre with the intent of persuading Lancre witches into revealing their secrets concerning herbs and flowers, but she didn't stay for very long. By all accounts – and this is a third-party story that has filtered back to us through several intermediaries – the Lancre witches didn't trust her and suggested it was a bloody good idea if she left town."

"I wonder why?" mused Alice Band, who had her own experience of Lancre and its witches, having briefly and disastrously attempted to perpetrate archaeology there.**(4)**

"And by the way, I'm on good enough terms with one Lancre witch." Alice remembered Nanny Ogg, who'd taken a sympathetic shine to the would-be archaeologist who had just had a series of humbling failures. Nanny had taken to Alice after watching her fail to broach a single trench nor collect any native Lancrastrian artefacts, and they had, in a way, become friends. "I could confirm the story about Davinia Bellamy travelling to Lancre with her."

"Do it." André requested. "Thank you, Miss Band."

_I made friends in Lancre because they saw me screw it all up, start to finish. _Alice reflected_. There's nothing as unthreatening and endearing as sincere incompetence, after all. I'll bet Davinia rubbed them up the wrong way and failed to get anywhere with the witches because she was simply too good at what she does and they got to be suspicious of her motives. The only people I inhumed while I was there were two Elves, and the local witches see that as vermin control, not murder._

"After this, she returned to Ankh-Morpork, where Peter Bellamy had taken up a prison officer's job at the Tanty. They married, first home address, according to prison personnel files, being a room in Dolly Sisters. Davinia brought in a wage first as a florist's shop assistant and then as a private gardener. This was how she met Mr Mouseborough, previous owner of their current home. He was eighty-two and could not manage his garden any more, so he paid Davinia to do it for him. He was sitting on large cash offers to sell the house to a property speculator, so that the large garden could be used to build several smaller properties for resale. Mouseborough, against the advice of his lawyer and accountant, couldn't bear for the garden he'd built up over sixty years to be destroyed, and preferred it to go to somebody who loved gardening and growing things. Subsequent events are tangled, but he died, some sort of agreement was entered into with the lawyers, and there was a bit of snarling over the will, involving distant Mouseborough relatives who didn't want to lose a fortune, but the law ruled in favour of the Bellamys. We are reviewing several deaths that occurred in this period, so as to be sure that natural causes were in fact responsible. The Bellamys are, in fact, paying a somewhat below market-rate mortgage on the property to the estate of Mr George Mouseborough, and the distant relatives are going to have to be content with income from that."

André concluded with:

"Davinia Bellamy has since obtained a Masters degree from Brindisi on the subject of large tropical carnivorous plants. I have a copy of her thesis available here. I believe she is currently working on a doctoral thesis on the same topic. As we'll as running her own floristry business – she as able to buy out her previous employer - her employees also include several flower-barrows working the streets and markets of Morpork. In the middle of all this she found time for three sons. On the face of it, a busy, capable, professional woman."

"Indeed" said several people, with varying degrees of dry irony.

"Now let's review tasks to take away.

"Sergeant Littlebottom is to continue reviewing the deaths of Mr George Mouseborough and his equally elderly cousin Miss Daphne Poundclencher, so as to rule out any issues to do with hastening them towards their eternal rest. As Mr Mouseborough was nursed by Davinia Bellamy in his final year, this is a pertinent question. The property speculator in question, who wished to tear up the garden and build houses on it, a Mr Rupert van Hoogstraten, is of course already on the list of probable victims. We can be fairly sure she did kill him.

"Miss Smith-Rhodes is to continue with her plan to enter the shop premises and take a very close look at what goes on inside the building. She and her associate will then report back to this meeting when it reconvenes on Friday.

"And Mr ?..."

"Mr _{Cough}_" confirmed Mr _{Cough}_

"…is to approach the Thieves' Guild to ask them to check their records for details of members vanishing on active service in the Pelicool Steps area. He will also brief the Patrician on matters discussed at this meeting, and convey the willingness of the Howondalandian Embassy to unstintingly provide covert assistance in this investigation.

"Miss Band will approach her contact for confirmation of Davinia Bellamy's visit to Lancre, and details of what transpired here.

"We could also do with establishing whether Professor Pennysmart at the University will testify against Mrs Bellamy in court. If an expert can distinguish beyond doubt as to which member of the exotic bloom fancy cultivated a certain plant, this might well be conclusive evidence. We need caution and discretion in doing this, however, as since he appears well disposed towards her, he may not just refuse to testify, he may well withdraw active assistance to the investigation and even tip her off. We can't afford this, as he is currently one of our most expert witnesses in this area.

"Other investigators present will continue as present with covert investigation and observation. Which reminds me, did we talk to household staff at the last murder scene?"

"I did" said Angua. "The maid who answered the door to the florists describes a woman in her middle thirties, who looked somewhat like the description of Mrs Bellamy, except that the hair was dark brown. But that could have been a wig. And the wife of the deceased has been seen to revisit the shop, two days after the murder."

"That just about wraps it up, then." André said, with satisfaction. "Reconvene on Friday, here, at two? Thank you. But before we go. There's a bit of business that we've picked up on that the Assassins' Guild, and people close to the Howondalandian Embassy, should be made aware of. A favour for a favour, and all that. "

André took a sip of water.

"Strictly speaking, nothing at all to do with our investigation. But our moles in the student activist body tell us that the Royal Bank is going to be targeted for demonstrations and picketing, as it handles so much money for the Howondalandian Government from the gold and gems trade. They are, as you know, demanding a total economic boycott of the Union of Rimwards Howondaland because of its, er, _fascist_ and _repressive_ domestic policies, and they will be picketing the Bank with flyers and leaflets with the intention of getting people to close their accounts there in protest at its handling tainted foreign money."** (5)**

"Silly buggers. Shouldn't they be studying? Too much time on their hands!" snorted Joan.

"Indeed, Miss Sanderson-Reeves. I understand Mr von Lipwig has already raised interest rates on savings accounts by half a percent in response to the students. **(6) **But the point which will be of interest to the Assassins Guild is that the activist committee, the unofficial Students' Guild which Lord Vetinari has already twice refused to grant full Guild status to, is also going to target the Guild School with an intent to recruiting from its pupils. Opinion on the Guild Council is divided, as Assassins' School students are generally thought of as the class enemy. But the opinion is that bursary, charity and scholarship pupils are ripe for recruitment, as students from a poor background at Filigree Street are perceived as seeing the contradictions of a capitalist society more strongly then most."

"They get bullied, or otherwise have a hard time because they're poor. And the better-off kids do the bullying and beasting." Joan said, seeing the point. Among her other tasks, she was Head of Bursary and Scholarship pupils, and knew this better than most.

"OK, better prepare a response, then. It's good to know these things in advance. Thank you, inspector. I'll talk to Lord Downey."

"How does Arch-chancellor Ridcully deal with this?" Angua asked. "I can't see him putting up with too much radical activism at the University!"

"Apparently, m'dear, if they get too annoying, he just has them put in the University pond to croak to their hearts' content. It wears off after a few days, apparently, and they turn human again!"

* * *

**(1) **This another reason why the notoriously gloomy Tezuman religion thinks the world has got it in for them. It's no fun, when you're marching the latest sacrifice up to the top of the pyramid in order to carve their living heart out with evil obsidian knives, to be beaten to it by what you thought was a nice touch of green about the premises. If the ornamental plants then devour the priests, this is another reason why the Tezuman are as terminally bloody-minded as they are. Relays of expendable slaves are used, these days, to keep the pyramid sides completely clean, pristine, and un-strangled.

**(2) **This was the logic behind putting flowers down gunbarrels belonging to National Guardsmen at Kent State University, and elsewhere in the USA, during Vietnam War protests. Flower power…

**(3) **see TP's **Maskerade. **

**(4) **see my short story **The Lancre Caper. **

**(5) **For a long time, the British National Union of Students targeted Barclays Bank this way, as this bank handled a significant amount of South African business and invested heavily in that country.

**(6) **And this was how Barclays responded to the student boycott - it offered students the best possible terms for their bank accounts, better than other banks could match. But the overall cost of the NUS boycott to Barclays still ran into quite a few hundreds of millions of pounds and a lot of negative publicity.


	11. Inside the Shop

The MGC returns? C11

"How the _Hell _is a woman expected to _move_ in these demn' things?" Johanna Smith-Rhodes erupted.

"Well, _we_ manage it" Joan said, mildly.

"Serves you right for being a cross-dresser." added Alice Band, from somewhere at floor-level where she was pinning up a hem.

The fourth person in the room smiled but refrained from speaking, aware that as a student, she was there under sufferance and it was something of a pleasure to watch her teachers in an informal moment. She was wearing a smart, but plain and cheap, white linen dress with fire-orange stripes and piping, and a headdress of the same material. To her, this is convict's clothing, the issue garb of a prisoner, but she is accustoming herself to wearing it ands adopting the appropriate submissive and downcast manner.

Johanna, normally accustomed to dressing in a somewhat mannish style, in boots, trousers and tunic (the universal veldt uniform of those who live and work on the frontier) was finding it hard work to get used to conventional female clothing. The skirt, compared to proper trousers, was too tight and restricting and along with the unaccustomed higher heels was forcing her to walk in a totally different manner. The _verdammte _corseting might have given her a very obvious and eye-catching waist, and it might be forcing some things _in _and some other things _up_ in a manner she had to grudgingly concede was not unattractive, but it was bloody well uncomfortable. And as for this bum-roll bustle thing fastened to her back, ach, what was the point of _that_?

_The trained Assassin should be able to fit in anywhere, in any company, in any situation, in any clothing, and to blend in with the situation around her. Your life may at times depend on looking as completely unlike an Assassin as you can contrive. While it is considered bad manners to inhume the client except whilst wearing full approved Assassins' garb, you will be able to garner the necessary intelligence and information beforehand far more freely by looking like something other than what you are. We will therefore teach you the skills of disguise, deception, and concealment for this purpose._

"I'm asking a lot of you, Ruth, a _lot_!" Johanna had said to her pupil. "I'm a_sking_ you to do this, not telling you. You will have to dress in a way you find distasteful, go into a place you would rather not enter, and perform actions you would not wish to do. But look at it like this. On successful completion, you will _almost certainly_ be given a course pass in disguise, deception and subterfuge. With distinctions! Whet I went you to do, I do not think _any_ Guild student has managed before. It will make your name! Now shall we go over the do's and don'ts again?"

Despite herself, Ruth N'Kweze was drawn to the challenge of the task Johanna had asked her to perform. She had to go in "naked", as Assassins interpret the word: totally unarmed with no weapons whatsoever. (Well… except for one thing, which hopefully Miss Smith-Rhodes would not find out about.) Johanna had been insistent about this. If Ruth's true identity were discovered, Johanna felt she could smooth it over as a silly student prank from people who should have known better, apologise about it, and assure them that the pupil in question will be disciplined. But if she were caught, in _this_ garb, carrying weapons into _that_ place, then not even Johanna could save her.

Ruth also trusted her teacher, having over the previous four years seen Miss Smith-Rhodes change and mellow under the influence of Ankh-Morpork. Having watched her make a sincere effort to treat black pupils as the equals of her white ones, watching the Boor leopard change its spots, watching her learn, in her own way, as the pupils were learning. The day she had taken the part of a Zulu pupil being attacked by two white Howondalandians, an unprecedented thing in a Boor teacher, and listening to Johanna's furious and articulate rebuke of the attackers: _Back Home _there are black people and white people. _Back Home_ there are Boors and Zulus. _Back home _there is a border that flares up into war and fighting every so often. I was bloody well born on that border and you do not need to remind me of that! But the river running through this city is most assuredly _not_ the Ulunghi, hmmm? This is not the Transvaal. This is the Assassins' School, where there is no such thing as black or white or race or nationality.. Only a community of pupils working towards the same goal. Here, you _respect _your fellow student. After all, he might be the one holding your safety rope when you go edificeering. As you will hold his. _A higher rule applies here where you are all, black and white, Boor and Kwa'Zulu, regardless of race, religion, nationality, _**Assassins.**_ In this place you are an Assassin first, foremost and only. Everything else is secondary._

Ruth had nodded: she could, she thought, trust this teacher, who had acquired, somehow, a servant's dress in Embassy livery for her. Miss Smith-Rhodes had also apologised, sincerely so, for the latest security measure the _Staadt_ had taken against its black employees _defecting_ while serving overseas. The Boor overlords now tattooed the servant's identity card number on their upper arm, to make identification of a claimed runaway easier and to facilitate their repatriation from the host city's Watch.

They had stopped short at tattooing Ruth's arm: an ID number had been inked on, in indelible pen. Ruth had also been given a cover story, that she was from a small Zulu tribe which had made its peace with the Whites and now lived within the URH, prepared to accept Boor law as the price of survival. That had been as near as it had come to humiliation - being reminded that there were those of her people who had submitted – but Ruth was prepared to accept even this as part of the price for the game, of being the first free Zulu to penetrate into the Boor embassy compound. And hopefully to get out again.

And she also got to watch Miss Smith-Rhodes being dressed up as a typical Boor _baas-lady_. Which was amusing.

Finally, Joan and Alice declared they were satisfied. Johanna scrutinised herself in the full-length mirror. Made up, hair restyled and tied into a fashionable net, with a costume hat, and dressed in white with a white-and-gold sash proclaiming her to be a diplomat, she had to concede she carried off the pose of a big-city bimbo airhead quite unsettlingly well, as if some other Johanna had risen up to take over for an hour or two and was blinking in the unaccustomed sunlight.

_Would anyone seeing me like this think even for a second that my profession is Assassin? _she asked herself. _Then it's working!_

She walked up and down the room a few times to get better accustomed to the skirt and the heels. Alice and Joan watched her, appraisingly.

"Sex on legs, I think, Miss Band!" Joan said, nodding approvingly.

"I'm forced to agree with you, Miss Sanderson-Reeves." Alice replied, still intently watching. Johanna had an uneasy feeling that Alice was undressing her with her eyes, and coloured slightly.

"Right, m'dears! Orf you both go, and jolly good luck. Remember your training, Miss N'Kweze!"

"Yes, baas-lady!" Ruth murmured, submissively, and fell into step several paces behind Johanna, eyes suitably downcast and shoulders slightly bowed.

They left the Guild by a side-entrance, and Johanna hailed a cab.

"Howondalaand Embassy. Scoone Evenue". she directed, noting that Ruth, as befitted her new status, did not try to get in the cab but rode on the outside. She heard the driver say _Come further up front, luv, where it's more comfortable. You're in Ankh-Morpork now, I don't give a flying rat's cuss what colour your skin is!_

Johanna nodded: there was a lot of sympathy here for Howondalandian blacks. Or was it residual antipathy towards the Boors, even though the War was now almost outside living memory? She wouldn't put it past a Morporkian cab driver to be overly friendly towards the black servant, just as a way of lifting two fingers to the mistress. _As long as he doesn't try to persuade her to defect, _she thought_. I'd be obliged then to give his description and cab number to those delightful people from BOSS. _

But here they were, at the Embassy. There were no demonstrators today, she was pleased to note. Johanna paid the driver, Ruth fell in behind, and the duty guard saluted and opened the gate purely on the strength of the diplomatic sash, without bothering to check ID.

_I'll have to mention that to Uncle Piet. Any idiot can look the part and wear the orange sash and have a convincing-looking black maidservant in tow. The next one might have less benevolent reasons for the cloak-and-dagger stuff. _

Johana led the way to the Springboek Club. This was part of the agreement with Uncle Piet: _I would be happier if your maid does not go anywhere near the main Embassy building. _

The social club was still doing a good trade, despite lunch food service being long over. Black stewards were rushing to fulfil drinks orders.

Johanna looked round for Katerina. _Collect Katti and her maid, get on board an Embassy coach, then we get out again. _

"Hey, _girlie_!"

Johanna took her time looking round. Jakob DeBeers, leaning on the bar with cronies. Trying to look the hard man, despite a lot of obvious bruises.

"I see you bought yourself a kaffir girl, then!"

DeBeers then snapped his fingers at Ruth.

"Go fetch us beer. For four!"

Ruth nodded, and said "Yes, baas", then scurried off with a mousy walk. Johanna approved: she was unrecognisable as the proud, confident, student Assassin and was holding the part well. But one of the gravest insults in Boor society is to use somebody else's servants without first asking their mistress's permission. Johanna considered what to do about this, short of breaking her own cover and punching DeBeers through the bar. She had just a little suspicion about Ruth, and watched her intently as she set up a large pitcher of beer and four glasses on a tray. _Just something about her hand movement there…_

Ruth returned.

"About time, too. A man could die of thirst!" Ruth set the tray down at their table and was about to turn away.

_Pour our drinks, you lazy bloody nigger!" _DeBeers snapped.

Johanna forced her face to stay impassive. Was it fair to subject the girl to this? After the very slightest of pauses, Ruth submissively said "yes, Baas" and set about pouring the drinks. She didn't falter, even when DeBeers purposefully winked at his cronies and laid a hand on her bottom. Johanna caught the very merest glint of anger in the girl's eye, but it was soon dampened.

"Miscegenation in mind, Jakob?" she inquired, sweetly. "It's completely against the Race Laws, and you know it!" She paused to let the threat sink in. DeBeers wasn't so drunk that he didn't notice the danger. If Johanna dropped a word to BOSS…

"And I'd thank you not to mis-handle MY servant. Just in case you've forgotten!" It was her best classroom voice: it made him wince. Good.

Ruth finished pouring the beers.

"Now your duty to these gentlemen is over, Ruth, you may attend to _my_ needs." Johanna said. "Please return to the bar and get me a long iced tea. Matthieu the barman will show you how to make them if you're unsure."

"Yes, baas-lady."

_Katti, you unpunctual airheaded daughter of a warthog, where are you?_

"Joined the staff, have you, girlie?" the swaggering DeBeers demanded, indicating the sash. She coolly moved out of his reach.

"I perform diplomatic tasks now and again, yes." she confirmed, wholly truthfully. "Unpaid, and at my uncle's request. The sash is a honorary thing. It confers certain advantages."

"I'm sorry I'm late, Johanna!"

Katerina.

"Oh. I see you got yourself a black. About time, too! I was beginning to think you'd gone native! All that nonsense yesterday about hiring _white_ people as servants."

Johanna sipped her iced tea. She wasn't getting the pleasure from this that she was used to. In spring or summer on the veldt it was a great refresher. Here, in cold damp Ankh-Morpork, it was beginning to taste wrong. She realised, with a guilty start, that she'd have far preferred a simple lemonade shandy made with Winkles' Old Peculiar, the beer rich and satisfying and the lemonade to take the edge off it.

_I really am going native. _She also suspected Ruth could understand a lot more Vondalaans than she was letting on – she was trying to keep it out of her eyes, and she was succeeding in keeping her eyes averted around white people, which was a relief, as Johanna wasn't sure how she'd extricate her student if she were to be accused of "eyeballing" or other form of insolence. Johanna was also aware that dressed as she was, she was attracting a lot of male interest that she didn't feel completely at home with.

"Shall we go? Oh, and a new security thing, Johanna. As we're taking servants outside the compound, the Ambassador has ordered that two of the Embassy guard travel with us as a deterrent. This means the blecks have to ride inside the coach with us. The guards lock the coach doors and only unlock them when we get to our destination. It's like being in prison!"

"It's a sound precaution. But two of Captain Breytenbach's neckless thugs travelling with us? How utterly delightful!"

"Completely horrid, I know. But what can you do?"

They left the club together, their two black servants following meekly behind. A coach was waiting, and two of the guard straightened to attention. One was a relatively young man, perhaps nineteen, on his first overseas assignment, and the other was a grizzled thug of about forty.

"Apologies for what you see, ma'am" the older man said. "But that Stoneface Vimes will not let us carry serious weapons in town. We're allowed a whip, a cudgel and a short dagger and that's it. They have arrested us before for carrying swords or crossbows outside the Embassy."

_Yes, because you fire them indiscriminately, you have killed people_**(1)**_, and your diplomatic immunity means not even Vimes can hold on to you. At least my onkle sent the killer home demoted and in disgrace with a permanent posting way upcountry to the jungle beat. Where the rebel blacks shoot back. _

"Didn't Commander Vimes make us an offer, to give us additional training alongside his Watchmen?" asked the younger guard. "_Sammies_ are said to be the best Watchmen on the Disc, and you could go _anywhere_ with that training!"

The older guard glared at the younger. "Are you planning to _defect_ yourself, boy? Stoneface thinks the blacks are real people and he trains them as Watchmen, with full power of arrest over white people! "

He shuddered, expressively. "If you ask me, that was Vetinari talking through Stoneface. The crooked old bas… apologies, ladies… just wants to subvert us. Quite rightly, that poisoned offer was refused!"

_No, if you ask my opinion, I would consider Sam Vimes was making a genuine and a generous offer to try and stop future misunderstandings. Onkle Piet was seriously considering it, but BOSS vetoed the idea. And when BOSS exercises its veto, even Ambassadors have no choice._

Johanna noted that the younger guard was looking wistful, as if at a lost opportunity. She also remembered hearing that Kwa'Zululand had recently sent its first batch of police recruits to Ankh-Morpork for training. Very carefully, Commander Vimes was not – yet – deploying them anywhere near Scoone Avenue as probationary lance-constables undergoing street training. The Bureau Of State Security's local office was still going ballistic at the idea, however, and a possibly ill-advised diplomatic protest was poised to go to the Patrician.

"Let's get aboard, shall we?" Katerina decided.

It was a short ride to Pelicool Steps. Katerina and Johanna discussed old school friends and mutual acquaintances, Johanna noting the suitably passive, downcast, black faces sitting opposite them. It was universal among the servant-employing classes that you could talk about almost anything in front of servants, who were considered part of the furniture. Johanna had noticed the great households of Ankh-Morpork had this attitude too, in front of their white servants. She suspected the Venturis and the Selachiis and the Rusts also shared the mentality that their servants, although white of skin, were not completely human either. Indeed, Lord Rust had recently bought a holiday home in Howondalaand, declaring it to be a home from home and a place to go to in winter every year as he got older. _And I bet Vetinari was all in favour of that. _

But they were here. They waited inside the coach for the guards to unlock both side doors, then got out, Johanna took care getting out of the coach in the unfamiliar clothing – it certainly wasn't as easy as if she were wearing familiar garb. The guards were told to wait outside, and two Howondalandian baas-ladies, and their maids, walked lightly into Bellamy's florists. Johanna glanced very slightly to left and right as she entered.

A total absence of seven-foot tall maneating plants. But then, Sally had suggested they were on wheels, or otherwise easily portable around the shop. If they were nocturnal killers, they were probably sleeping a meal off somewhere, in a shady corner. _And this is Davinia Bellamy? A shorter woman than either of us, slightly dumpy, maternally rounded. Plump homely face, mouse-blonde hair, glasses. Red rosy cheeks and a sun-browned face. An air of ability and intelligence. _

"Miss de Mauritz! How nice to see you again! And this is?"

"Johanna van der Kaiboetje" Johanna said, firmly. "Elso from the Embessy.."

They shook hands. It was a firm, warm, welcoming handshake. The two black servants were disregarded, but this was normality and not worth remarking on. Johanna approved of this: the disregarded Ruth was free to discreetly make her own observations and report back later. And she was a bright student who'd been taught how to observe and what to look for.

The next half-hour passed easily and quickly. Despite herself, Johanna found herself liking Davinia Bellamy. She was bright, intelligent and personable, and she had a real enthusiasm for her subject. She certainly seemed too well-adjusted to be a mass murderer, although Johanna knew three equally bright, personable, well-adjusted women who'd _all_ killed more than once. And as for herself…_Appearances deceive, _she told herself.

And then she saw it. In a sealed glass case on its own. A Howondalandian death lily.

"Whet cen you tell me ebout this one?" she asked, and then pitched the reason at Katerina-level. "it is _very _pretty!"

"Ah." said Mrs Belllamy. " That one is there pretty much for decoration and show, I'm afraid. I can provide it dried or pressed, but I must warn you that the living bloom is in a sealed case for the protection of visitors. Even I have to take precautions when I feed and water it. The reason is that it's one of a group of flowers which look pretty and certainly do brighten up a room, but they have drawbacks. People have been known to have a serious allergic reaction to this plant because of certain secretions it gives off. To illustrate what I mean, let me show you a less drastic example."

She led Johanna away from the Death Lily and showed her another flowering plant. This was also in a sealed glass cage.

"This is , in its way, a beautiful flowering plant, you agree? And would form the centrepiece of a table display at a formal dinner?

However… I invite you to smell its perfume, but try not to get too close."

Johanna took a very cautious sniff, as did Katerina. They both coughed and recoiled from the corpse-stench of decaying meat that rose from the flower. Katerina squealed in disgust. Mrs Bellamy closed the box, her point made.

"This is the Dorian plant of Bhangbhangduc. The ripe fruit is perfectly edible and quite tasty, but most people don't care to get close enough to find out. The smell arises because it relies on corpse-flies and bluebottles and similar carrion flies to fertilise its flowers. Therefore it puts out a smell which is attractive to them. You can appreciate that it could rather kill the appetite if used to decorate a table-setting!"

Johanna nodded. Could this have confused Sally and Angua?

_No. A vampire would pick up not just the smell of old human b-vord. She'd also register the psychic miasma, the lingering pain and terror and fear of a dying man being torn apart by carnivorous plants. And a werewolf nose could tell the difference between human blood and gore, and animal remains, and must surely be able to tell an imitation produced by a plant?Which is, anyway, inside a sealed glass box? _

_And notice how cleverly she steered attention away from the Death Lily, and hopes that I don't remember she never told me its name. _Allergies_. Hah! She will know full well what it __**really **__does! _

Johanna forced herself to be carefully attentive to the sights and sounds all around her, allowing herself an inner smile at Katerina's exclamations of "Oh, they are all so _pretty_!" and "Look at this arrangement, Johanna! Isn't it _nice_?" It was quite restful to be in the company of somebody with a mind on a level with a performing seal.

In the background was the muted, careful, chatter of the two maids, who also seemed to be enjoying a day out surrounded by things of beauty. Johanna didn't begrudge them.

"Excuse me a moment," Davinia said, and stepped past them to the two maids.

"Have you found something that interests you?" she said, kindly.

"If they're a bother, Mrs Bellamy, I can send them outside…" Katerina offered. Davinia shook her head.

Katerina's maid mumbled something, almost inaudibly, and lowered her eyes. Ruth spoke for both of them.

"Many pardons, baas-lady. My friend here was almost certain that she recognised the aloe vera plant. It is used at home as a medicine to clean minor wounds and promote healing."

"She'd be right, too! You can use it as a salve, you can crush a leaf directly over a wound or a burn, you can put it into a steamer and breathe the essential oil diffused in the steam. Do you have any in your, er, residence block at the embassy? It grows well enough in this climate, although not as quickly as it would at home.I tell you what, I'll give you a plant! You know how to take cuttings and propagate new ones? In a year or so, this one plant could be many."

"Thank you for your kindness, baas-lady!"

Johanna watched Ruth's fingers, down by her thigh, discreetly tapping out a message in Assassin finger-code. She read it, and replied with _received._

Ruth had said _There is more here. Speak later. _

"That won't go on your bill, ladies". Davinia assured them. " The Embassy contract is a valuable one and I can afford a little generosity. I'm told the Embassy sets aside a little ground for the staff to cultivate and make green in their spare time."

"Ell our gardeners are blecks". Katerina said. "I hev no objection to their setting eside a little space in the greenhouses for growing plents to use in tribal medications. If it raises the morale of our servents then it is a good thing."

Johanna noted a doorway at the rear of the shop marked **Private**.

She put on her best genteel-bimbo persona, and lowered her voice.

"This is an emberresing thing to esk. But hev you a plece where I could enswer the cell of nature?"

"Of course! Through the door and at the bottom on the right, past the storeroom and workrooms."

"Thenk you".

Johanna rushed gratefully through the door marked "Private", close it behind her, and took her bearings. She could hear somebody moving around in a room to her right. Assassins' senses kicked in.

_Shop assistant. Female. Slightly worn right heel. Maybe eighteen to twenty?_

She decided she had better be a slightly confused customer looking for the toilet. And it wasn't just play-acting, either: that bloody corseting followed by a large drink appeared to have more than halved her bladder capacity.

On the left, a locked door with a black-and-yellow pictogram on it. She recognized it at once: Alchemists' Guild sign for _Biological Hazard. Do Not Enter. _She though she could hear something moving inside, a rustling, dry slithering, sound. _This must be where her security plants live in the daytime. There's a faint tinge of rank meat to the air. _

On the right, she could see a brown-coated girl, her back turned to Johanna, making up bouquets in a workroom. She began humming a song as she worked. Johanna moved on. Another locked room with the biohazard rune on the outside. And here? Oh joy of joys. _Nature is now screaming. _

She arranged herself and did what she had to do, her mind racing. Ruth had discovered something, she was sure. But what? _And the verdammte woman is so sure of herself that she keeps the murder weapon out in front, on open display, where everyone can see it – and of course nobody does. You have to admire that sort of brazen cheek. _

She thought about the locked doors and recalled the lockpicks hidden in and around her hat, pretending to be hat-pins. _I could walk through either of those doors. But not with her staff working back here. It could be hard to explain. And with the sort of things likely to be behind those doors, would I walk out again? And ach, dressing like a girlie constricts the bladder awfully. The clothes dictate that I may only have girly drinks in tiny glasses. _

She retraced her steps out, feeling the sort of claustrophobic nerve-tingling oppression she had last felt in the deep jungle, and for much the same reason. Put a foot wrong or step through the wrong door, and it could kill her. She smiled. She hadn't felt this alive for _weeks._ She wondered why the singing girl in the workroom didn't feel it. _Because she isn't involved. Davinia only employs her as shop-help and she's perfectly happy being that._

And eventually they left, with boxes and arm-loads of flowers to take back to the Embassy. As befitted their station, they watched as he two maids loaded the coach, although Johanna, practically, realised it would take half as long if she and Katerina joined in. It wouldn't do to suggest it, though.

"Come on, you lazy kaffirs! We haven't got all day!" the older guard growled, resting a hand on the butt of his whip. Johanna suppressed a shudder of distaste.

_Was there a time, was there ever a time, when I thought and acted like that? It's demeaning. And not just to the servants. _

"Take it easy, Konstabel. They're doing their best. And some of those flowers are delicate. You cannot rush those." she said. The guard flushed angry red at this mild rebuke – the strongest one Johanna dared utter.

And then, in a sweet-smelling coach, back to the Embassy, where they unloaded at a rear staff door and other servants shared the load.

"If we hadn't had to take those smelly guards with us, Johanna, we could have stayed out longer and made an afternoon of it. I don't know about you, but you couldn't relax with them being nearby hearing every word we spoke!"

_Maybe that was deliberate, _Johanna thought.

"Another time, Katti? I'd better collect Ruth and take her back to the Guild."

"Johanna, your…trade involves so many weapons. Is it wise to have black servants so near them? They might get ideas!"

"I've never thought twice about it, to be honest. Ruth is loyal and can be trusted near the working tools."

_She scored 85% in a practical swordsmanship test. Of course she can be trusted. _

"Your funeral."

"Not for a good seventy years yet. We live long!"

"You hope."

Johanna absently noted here was a commotion of some sort in the Embassy. It involved the resident doctor. There were distant voices.

_Possibly the glasses or the pitcher had been imperfectly washed, but they drained all the beer. Keep them on bed-rest for three or four days. Isolation, of course. The deBeer fellow. He's only just arrived from Home, hasn't he? I'll get the Lady Sybil to check the samples too, since at present we can't rule out cholera or tropical dysentery… no fun for the servants who'll have to keep him and the room scrupulously clean, of course. AND themselves. _

Johanna remembered the suspicion of a hand movement above a pitcher of beer, and frowned.

She walked Ruth out into Scoone Avenue, and they took a cab back to the Guild. Travelling together on the inside, this time.

"You know, you'd spare a lot of time and trouble if you tell me now what you put into Jakob deBeer's drink!" Johanna invited her.

The girl student lowered her head demurely.

"We did Incapacitants with Mr Mericet last week, miss. He explained that you can Incapacitate With Extreme Prejudice too, using strong laxatives."

"So you saved some for when it might come in handy." Johanna mused. "And when DeBeers was throwing his weight about and laid his hand where you didn't want it, he and his cronies were the obvious target."

"Are you angry, Miss?"

"Amused, perhaps. Angry, no. Fortunately the Embassy is blaming it on his being fresh off the boat and having brought the bugs of Home with him. So no servants will be disciplined. Did you consider _that_ when you were playing catch-up?"

Ruth lowered her eyes. Johanna relented.

"We haven't had this conversation, Miss N'Kweze."

"What conversation, miss?"

"Let's start a new one. What else did you see in the florists' shop?"

"She had _aloe vera, _the healing plant. She also had _Tot Siens Vera."_**(2)**

"_Goodbye Vera!" _Johanna breathed. "I've heard of that. Try crushing one of _those_ leaves over an open wound. Death within thirty seconds!"

They returned to the Guild in silence to find the others and debrief them.

* * *

**(1) **Reference the incident where security guards at the Libyan Embassy in London, panicked by an anti-Ghadaffi demonstration, indiscriminately opened fire from inside the Embassy, murdering a policewoman. Although the killer could be clearly identified, he could not be arrested and had to be allowed to leave the country.

**(2) **The Discworld is a logical place where everything has its opposite. _Goodbye Vera _is the total opposite of_ Aloe Vera. _


	12. The noose tightens but whose?

_**The MGC returns? C12**_

"Well, I think that adds a lot of very interesting information to the case." Lord Downey observed, steepling his fingers in a very Vetinari-like fashion.

"You are to be congratulated, Miss Smith-Rhodes. Very well done. Impeccably planned and carried out. Which of course brings me to…"

The latest investigators' meeting was in session, this time, at Downey's insistence, in the Master's Study at the Assassins' Guild. As before, the Watch was represented by Cheery, Angua and André, and the Guild by Joan, Alice, Johanna and the two impassive QCIC agents. Vetinari had again sent Mr _{Cough}_ to observe for him. Ruth N'Kweze was also present.

Downey rummaged in the paperwork on his desk. He found an neatly written presentation scroll with a little bit of gilding on it.

"Miss Ruth N'Kweze, Four Tump. Normally you would not pass the modules in stealth, deception, covert entry, and disguise until well into your fifth year at this school. However, I have read the report presented by Miss Smith-Rhodes concerning the assistance you gave her in this mission, and I have taken into account the degree of difficulty and danger involved to you should your cover have been exposed at any time. After consultation with your house mistress Miss Band, I have decided that it is right to award you an exceptional pass mark, with distinction, in these subjects, following your infiltration of the Howondalandian Embassy and your successful masquerade as a humbled black servant. It cannot have been easy for you. My congratulations!"

Downey passed over the scroll.

"Normally the whole school would receive details of the mission you assisted in and the part you took. But as this is sensitive.."

"Full disclosure would precipitate a diplomatic incident with Howondaland. Something the Patrician is keen to avoid." said Mr _{Cough},_ quickly.

"We will release a statement to the effect that you assisted in a secret and sensitive operation, and have been properly rewarded and congratulated. All pupils are instructed to follow your example and reminded that even before graduation, they may well have special skills that a fully Licenced Assassin will ask to use in the completion of a mission. For a student be invited to assist a Full Assassin on a contract is a prestigious matter, and reflects honourably on the student involved, as well as contributing practical evidence which is taken into account against termwork".

Downey shook hands with her.

"Jolly well done, Miss N'Kweze. Now you might want to report back to the meeting on what you did and saw?"

Ruth made her report, and was questioned by Assassins and Watchwomen as to the fine details.

Cautioned to silence, she was making to go when Downey added:

"And by the way, I hear that several rather, ah, _Boorish_, guests of the Embassy suffered an unfortunate bout of stomach trouble yesterday, which coincided with your visit. More suspicious minds than mine might perceive a connection, especially since I understand you studied the synthesis and use of laxatives as incapacitants in your Poisons class last week."

"I believe it is being blamed on a food poisoning virus a recent arrival in this city may have contracted." Ruth said, totally poker-faced.

"Which is a most convenient supposition, and entirely in our best interests if it is believed." Downey remarked, a smile flickering at the corners of his mouth. Other people in the room were also trying hard not to smile.

"But between you, me, and a room full of people sympathetically disposed towards you, miss N'Kweze, what in actuality did you spike their drinks with?"

Ruth held his steady gaze.

"Klatchian cascara, sir. Mr Mericet remarked that Doctor Lawn at the Lady Sybil uses it, in carefully measured small doses, to relieve _truly heroic_ cases of constipation."

The room burst into suppressed spluttering laughter.

"I see." said Downey. "So you not only infiltrated the Rimwards Howondalandian Embassy in the guise of a humble and submissive ladies' maid, as opposed to the proud daughter and sister of Kwa'Zulu warriors and trainee Assassin that you are in reality. Whilst there, you delivered an effective comeback to a rather oafish Boor who, unasked, intimately touched your body. Nobody, except perhaps Miss Smith-Rhodes, and even she wasn't sure, noticed you infiltrating a pitcher of beer with cascara powder."

Downey shook his head, gently.

"I don't know, Miss N'Kweze. Carry on like this, and I might be forced to grant full Assassin status to you several years ahead of schedule, under the provisions available to me for rewarding exceptionally gifted students."

He sighed. "Reports reaching me from the embassy suggest that they have, happily for us, accepted the theory that a new arrival from the docks was carrying a food poisoning virus which only transmitted itself to the three gentlemen who shared a pitcher of beer ordered by the carrier. Were it otherwise contagious, it would have shown by now. Miss Smith-Rhodes, did you communicate my offer to your uncle?"

"Yes, sir." said Johanna. She recited: "I informed the Embassador that the Guild wes very sorry to hear of his problem with whet might be food poisoning. In the interests of greater friendship end co-operation, I offered him the services of Guild professionels who are trained to investigate these matters end discover whether the cause was accidental or deliberate. Es I reminded my onkle, we heve cause to know best in these investigations, end our forensic investigetory skills are _unperelleled._ "

Johanna thought for a second, and added:-

"I'm _sure_ we could find convincing evidence thet it was eccidentel! I'm sorry my onkle refused, but with sincere thanks, believing it to be a regrettable end netural outbreak of bush sickness."

"Jolly good" said Downey, adding "You are dismissed, miss N'Kweze. I'm sure you are at the threshold of a remarkable career as an Assassin! I shall be watching with interest."

She smiled, and left the office.

"Inspector Loudweather?" Downey invited him.

André nodded acknowledgement.

"Thank you all for attending. I'm sure we've all progressed with the tasks we took away from the last meeting. Who wants to begin? Miss Band?"

Alice had sent a priority Clacks to Lancre asking for Nanny Ogg's assistance. The reply had come back, reverse-charged to the Assassins' Guild:

_We remember her, alright. Sassy little baggage, some dam' good practical ideas she showed off to me and Esme as if she was expecting a round of applause. Stayed a week. Oh, pleasant in herself, a nice enough girl, and it wasn't forced nor put on. It was just that we dint trust her with the deep stuff. It was a feeling me and Esme had, that if we taught her the serious things with herbs and plants, somebody somewhere was going to end up regrettin' it. Esme had a quiet word, and she was on the coach back to Ankh-Morpork the next morning. _

Alice had very carefully edited out an embarrassingly encouraging and candid line or two from Nanny Ogg, which had cheerfully asked about her love life in terms she wasn't comfortable with having broadcast far and wide. Mr Brown from QCIC asked the question:-

"This seems to end rather abruptly. Was this all the lady in Lancre sent?"

André, who knew Alice's secret and had reason to be sympathetic, said

"I understand the remainder of the message consisted of personal correspondence between Mrs Ogg and Miss Band, and does not concern this meeting".

He added, "I also understand that Lancre witches have some of the attributes of an informal Watch department in their native villages and rural localities. Having met Mrs Ogg myself – as my reports at the time made clear, her assistance was invaluable in solving the case of several puzzling deaths at the Opera House**(1)** – I can safely say that I would trust her judgement. And in this case, her judgement says that Mrs Bellamy was _not_ a worthy or safe person to receive training from Lancre witches concerning their knowledge of flowers, herbs and spices. Which is also relevant to this case."

"But still only circumstantial" Mr Brown remarked.

"Indeed, sir. The next item to be actioned?"

"I checked what medical records are available on the deaths of Mr George Mouseborough and Miss Daphne Poundclencher." Cheery said. "While at a distance of nearly twelve years it's impossible to be absolutely certain, everything points to natural death in the case of very elderly humans with no pointers to suggest otherwise. So this line of investigation could safely be closed".

"Agreed." said André. "And did you also return to the University?"

"Yes, sir. I again spoke to Professor Pennysmart concerning exotic tropical plants. It occurred to me to ask if the provenance of a particular plant can be established beyond all possible doubt. After all, pedigree animals such as racehorses and swamp-dragons require their bloodlines to be firmly and conclusively established as part of the valuation process. With exotic plants changing hands for four-figure sums, there must be similar ways of tracking their lineage and where they ultimately came from.

"Ideally, and I'm searching for the right words here, we need some sort of scientific method to establish, er, kinship, between two plants. We can tell if two swamp-dragons came out of the same clutch of eggs, for instance. But can we tell if two plants have got the same degree of kinship?"

"Came out of the same seed-packet, sort of thing?" asked Joan.

"Such as one found at the scene of a crime, and one on display at Bellamy's Florists." agreed Cheery. "Unfortunately, Professor Pennysmart tells us science isn't quite there yet, although he's trying to take the researches of the late Professor Catbury a step further. He was apparently the one who thought every cell in a living body carries its own signature dictating what it should grow up to be and even how tall, what colour, et c. Catbury's experiments were, on the face of it, ludicrous, but they did succeed in demonstrating that the idea worked. The university still has its population of broad-beaned fruit-flies, for instance, which didn't exist until Catbury started splicing deep-down code material together from donor creatures."

Cheery sighed.

"However, the principal breeders _do_ keep finely-detailed stock-books detailing, for instance, what amount of pollen from Plant A was allowed to interact with the stamens of Plant B and how the resulting plant AB grew and developed. And who bought plant AB and its related AC and AD versions when they grew to maturity. And their descendants. So if we can get hold of Mrs Bellamy's stock-books…"

"Or the stock-books of people who have bought plants off her…" mused André. "And the Professor? Would he testify in court as an expert witness?"

"He's concerned for Mrs Bellamy, certainly. He believes she has changed over the last year and isn't as open and approachable as she used to be. In fact, he asked me if we're investigating her for anything."

"And his attitude?"

Cheery paused before replying.

"It's a funny thing, sir, how otherworldly and naïve academics can be. He asked me if we'd also heard a rumour that Davinia sees people in the shop after hours and provides dangerous plants to them. That is, flowering plants that both parties know to be dangerous, even lethal. He's worried that normally, the Fancy trades freely in these things, but only under strict conditions, such as an understanding that very special precautions have to be taken, that both parties are equally skilled in their management, and that neither the plants nor any extract therefrom are used for illegal or immoral purposes. What concerns him is that if a dangerous plant is used for the wrong reasons, it could draw down unwelcome attention from the Assassins' Guild, the Thieves' Guild, or indeed, if they're really lucky, the Watch."

"The Thieves' Guild?" Joan questioned.

"The professor told me there was a case, a few years ago, of an enterprising unlicenced Thief wearing the Hypnosuggestive Orchid of Ghat as a buttonhole." Cheery explained. "With breathing filters inserted in his own nostrils, he'd collar a mark, take them for a drink, get them to breathe in the pollen, and then they'd respond to hypnotic suggestions, such as "_empty your wallet_" or "_what a nice diamond ring. Give it to me_." The Guild were, apparently, _not_ happy people when they caught up with Reg Hypnos, and sharp words were spoken to the tropical flower fancy. They are, of course, also concerned that the Patrician might consider any mis-use of the flowers to be a reason to regulate and impose licences and strictly inspected dealing conditions.

"Therefore I believe that in these circumstances, if the rest of the Fancy believes Mrs Bellamy has overstepped the mark and drawn official attention to what they do, the Professor will testify against her, regardless of any good feeling, so as to mitigate any moves to restrict their freedoms. It concerned him greatly that the Watch, ie me, was at the University asking the sort of questions they'd prefer not to be asked."

She finished her presentation, and settled back.

"Cheery, see if you can unsettle him a bit more and ask to see his stock-books, would you? You know the form, if he's a bit reluctant, just hint that _at the moment_ it's a nice pleasant _ask, _of course. If you need to borrow any, take a troll with you to do the carrying back to the Yard. Oh, and ask him to show you round his hothouses. You might want to delegate Reg Shoe to that, as he doesn't need to breathe. And carry on hinting that while we're not sure yet, certain inquiries point to Davinia, although we'd be obliged if he didn't tip her off, and we'll _know_ if he does. Damn, I wish Captain Carrot were here, he'd know chapter and verse, but I'm just wondering if there's one of those old Acts we could quote.."

"The Dangerous Plants, Flowers and Flora (Licencing) Regulations of 1793, I believe, Inspector" said Mr _{Cough},_ helpfully. "Mr Drumknott was recently asked to retrieve a copy from the Palace archives".

_Who by? , _everyone else wondered, albeit very briefly.

Mr {Cough} took the floor.

"Myself and Mr Jones from the Guild went to speak to Mr Boggis at the Thieves' Guild." he said. "We explained that there are certain inquiries afoot concerning strange events in the Pelicool Steps area, and we believe we may be able to shed light on any mystery disappearances pertaining to Guild members last known to be active in that area. Mr Boggis went away to consult with his office staff, and they returned with the dossier on the strange case of Murdo Ludd, a licenced thief who, eight months ago, was authorised to burgle two premises in the Pelicool Steps area. These shops were under Guild licences, and these would have been routine visits to tick those shops off as having had their quota of agreed burglaries for the period. Mr Ludd was under strict instruction not to steal more than fifty dollars' worth of cash and goods from both, according to agreement, and to tidy up after himself and leave an appropriate receipt.

"When he failed to return the next morning, follow-up was despatched to check on his route and the premises he had been authorised to burgle. He had indeed performed a routine visit to Grace Speaker's pet shop, where Miss Speaker, aware the visit was about to take place, had left an envelope out containing fifty dollars. Ludd had left a receipt.

"He had not got as far as the Brindisian restaurant that would have been the next client. In between the two, however, were firms which we are now aware include Bellamy's Florists. Mr Boggis informed us that Ludd was under investigation for alleged freelance burglary outside the approval of the Guild. Where of course there would be no limit on the amount he could take. He may have given into temptation and decided to add a freelance break-in to the two officially sanctioned ones. Either way, some torn bloodstained clothing and a Thief's tool-belt that could be identified as his were later found stuffed behind a row of dustbins further down the waterfront. There was nothing to connect this discovery with Bellamy's, however, although Thieves' Guild investigators searching for Ludd did make a routine call there to ask if she'd seen anything. They noted nothing of interest from this call. The condition of the clothing, the dossier noted, suggested attack by a methodical large animal using a lot of very sharp teeth and claws.

"Mr Ludd's death was put down to killing by person or entity unknown, body not found. For the record, I have to say that Mr Boggis was most helpful, and has asked to be kept informed."

"OK!" said André, with satisfaction. "We're getting closer and closer and closer all the time and we might just be able to wrap this one up fairly soon. But I'd appreciate it if we could just get a few more little things together before we arrest, as we really need to make this water-tight.

"Cheery, if you can get hold of those stock-books and detail the degree of interaction across the members of this exotic flower fancy? A list of members would be useful, then we can pull in their stock-books and get a picture of how far and wide Mrs Bellamy's exotic fancies travel in this city. A good defence could still point out that we have no absolute conclusive proof the killer flowers came from her, so we need to rule out other members of the club as soon as we can.

"Miss Smith-Rhodes, you noticed a second, potentially lethal, plant on open display at Bellamy's. Can you go back through previous murder scenes to check if that's been used in past cases? If she's got to the stage where she's boasting about her secret life as a murderer with _one_ killer plant, she may be doing it with a second.".

"It follows on" Joan said. "By this stage in my old life, I was _absolutely_ sure I'd be arrested any second. Which is where you make mistakes and a clever investigator can lead you into a trap. And in my cookery school, I had a couple of my lethal weapons out in the open, where _everyone_ could see 'em. Part of that was a challenge – let's see if you're _clever, _shall we, and identify the _special_ almond flakes on top of this frangipan tart, if you can. Take 'em away and analyse 'em, and you'll find they're 60% hydrocyanide."

She paused, grimaced, and added:

"And deep down, a little bit of you _wants_ to make a mistake. You're caught in a situation you can't control, it's running away with you, and trying to keep a normal face up while you know what you're doing is anything but normal – well, you want the nightmare to be over, one way or the other. Mr Mericet was the one who trapped me, when he trapped me into letting on that I knew more about poisons than many qualified Assassins. Pride, you see."

"We can use that insight" André said, thoughtfully. "Thank you for that, Miss Sanderson-Reeves. It can't have been easy to say."

And the latest review meeting broke up.

* * *

While the meeting was in progress, Davinia Bellamy presented herself at the Gleam Street offices of the Times, much to the surprise of the CSP plainclothes officers who had been discreetly following her ever since she left the shop.

They conferred briefly in the street, and, being coppers, decided the best place to watch for her re-appearance on a wet and grey morning would be from a window seat in the Bucket over a hot drink. They could call by the offices later to ascertain her business there: but being a shop owner, it was likely she was discussing advertising, maybe even being interviewed for the shopping pages, or even for one of the glossy womens' magazines coming off the presses in ever-greater numbers these days. Most likely totally legitimate and unremarkable, but it paid to ask the question.

Meanwhile, Davinia was asking, shyly, if she could do a search in the archives. Of course, a three-dollar search fee was only fair, as it bought the assistance of the times archivist and picture librarian Ms Houser.

That visit from the Howondalandian ladies the other day was bothering Davinia. Something about it was prickling her slightly, a long-submerged memory starting to nag at her. Oh, Katerina was alright. Not the brightest girl in the world, but enthusiastic for the aesthetic details of flowers, not that she'd use a word like "aesthetic" where "_pretty!_" would do. The Diplomatic Services needed people like Katerina, to issue invitations, plan parties and formal balls, oversee domestics in cleaning, polishing and making pretty, setting out the table places, and prettying the Embassy up with fresh flowers. Probably from good family at home, and the product of an upscale finishing school in Überwald, she'd been dignified with the term _Social Secretary _and sent overseas to fill in the interim between graduation and marriage. All she needed then was a crash-course in _realpolitik_, which for Social Secretaries boiled down to not seating the Borogravian Ambassador next to his Zlobenian counterpart, nor indeed the Ephebian and the Tsortean.

No, it was the other one, who'd introduced herself as Johanna van Kaiboetje, who worried her. On the face of it, as much a fluffy airhead as Katerina. But there had been something deeper in her eyes, which she had seen relax into the thousand-yard stare of one who has seen and done things the Katerinas of this world cannot imagine. Davinia had seen a reflection of herself in Johanna's eyes: it had taken her a while to work it out, but it had come to her in the night. This was a woman who had, at some point in her life, _also_ killed people. It took a killer to spot a killer.

And Johanna had unerringly spotted the Death Lily. Davinia quailed inside. Putting one on display, for her own personal satisfaction, had been a risk, but she'd reasoned that only one person in ten thousand would recognise it. _And the ten thousandth person just walked into the shop!_

Davinia ran through the possibilities. City Watch? No. Vimes would employ just about any nationality, but not this one. Too many black people lived in the city. Vimes was too good a copper. Still at the embassy… but BOSS? She shuddered. The Bureau of State Security was known to be ruthless and efficient, home-grown professional killers who could give the Assassins' Guild a hard fight. _But apart from the appalling and offensive van Hoogstraten, have I done anything to merit their attention? If Hoogstraten was one of their agents, I may have inconvenienced people who a wise person does not annoy._

But van Hoogstraten had been a native Kerrigian, not a White Howondalandian, and he'd just been a spectacularly nasty landowner and property speculator with no political ties? She'd got him with some poisoned tulips, as she recalled. Flowers from Home. She smiled at the memory: a very satisfying _deadheading_.

And then her mind had backtracked, in the still of the night, to the words _Assassins' Guild_. The red-haired girl had an association with the Guild? It was there, the ghost of a memory… something she'd seen in the Times? Ah well. She could take an hour off in the morning. See if the Times archive had any leads. Berenice Houser was one of her customers, a woman whose ex-husband had no idea how lucky he was to still be alive. **(2) **If he hadn't left her when he did, she might now be a widow and not a divorcee.

Davinia fell asleep, thinking she'd at least managed a little kindness to those two coloured girls. _Fifteen years ago I fought apartheid as a student,_ a part of her soul reminded her_. Now I let it into the shop and take its money._ She didn't stop to consider that one of the otherwise disregarded maidservants might have been more than she seemed. There was no reason for her to: Ruth's performance had been exceptional.

And today, here she was, making small-talk with Berenice over a cup of gratis coffee and piles of back issues of the Times.

It had taken an hour or so of narrowing it down, but it was in Times editions from four and five years ago. A small article from over five years before: _The Guild of Assassins has confirmed it is to go fully co-educational within the next two years. A spokeswoman for the Guild, Lady T'Malia (54) has informed the Times that a recruitment and selection procedure is underway to engage suitably qualified and vocationally inclined women to the School's staff. It is envisaged that the successful candidates will first undergo an accelerated training programme to enable them to qualify as fully Licenced Assassins before they begin teaching female students. _

_Lady T'Malia (56), at the moment the only licenced female Assassin, would not be drawn on what the Guild considers "essential career attributes" for female hopefuls, but assured the Times that they are even now drawing up a list of candidates who the Guild hopes to employ, by "making them an offer they cannot refuse". _

_Lady T'Malia (58) did not contradict our use of the phrase "headhunting" to describe this recruitment process, saying that she hopes the Mature Students' Class will be up and running at the earliest possible opportunity. She was also keen to convey that the Guild is also looking for suitably inclined accountants and book-keepers to breathe new life into its financial department, and a dual qualified assassin-librarian would also be an advantage. _

And from the following day's Times:-

_Correction: Lady T'Malia, senior tutor in Realpolitik and Political Studies at the Assassins' Guild School, would dearly like us to clarify some confusion about her age that crept into yesterday's edition. We appreciate this has caused her some emotional irritation, and we therefore apologise unreservedly and are happy to clarify that she is, in fact, 52 years old. _

"She's actually way over sixty" Berenice breathed, confidentially. "Mr de Worde got hold of the relevant graduation yearbook. However, he chose to be gallant to a lady, which isn't especially difficult to do when she's holding a blade to your writing hand."

_The hopefuls: As of today, the Guild of Assassins will be running its very first Mature Students' Class of thirty adult entrants to the Guild. Four women and twenty-six men, ranging in age from 18 to 48, and coming from as far away as Howondaland, will undergo competitive and rigorous training and selection and it is hoped the majority of them will end up as fully licenced Assassins by this time next year. _

_We would have liked to have said more, but this article is subject, at the wish of Lord Downey, to a_ **P-Order(3) **_agreed by the Patrician last night. The P-Order system is invoked only infrequently and is used to prevent matters of the greatest state security appearing in the Press, a state to which the Times is forced to give guarded and critical consent. We cannot at present give details of names or of the reasons why ceretain members of this class have been accepted for Assassin Training, much though we would like to. _

"You'll like this one!" Berenice said, handing over a newspaper dated for a year or so later.

There was an iconograph captioned "_Downey's Angels? Or Downey's Deadly Belles?_". It showed the Master of the Assassins' Guild, looking rather pleased with himself, surrounded by the four women who had succeeded in passing out as Licenced Assassins.

While the article again expressed apologies for being subject to P-Order, it stated that the Times had at least been able to secure limited interviews with the four new female Assassins which it could print. However, the questions we could ask were pre-vetted and the text of this article, under the P-Order system, had to be passed by the Palace prior to publication.

_**Joan Sanderson-Reeves (48) **_I will be teaching Domestic Science, Elocution and Deportment and I will have a degree of responsibility for day and bursarship pupils at the School.

I must say I feel jolly lucky and privileged to be here today, and I hope I have proven the doubters wrong who considered forty-eight was too old for anyone to start training as an Assassin. There was room for another challenge in my life, I think, and this is it…

_**The Right. Honourable Miss Alice Band (23) **_As the daughter of a Bishop, I was brought up to deeply contemplate the mysteries of human life, including those to do with death and judgement and forgiveness for sin. Had I chosen the priesthood, I would perhaps need to consider all three, but happily, the profession of Assassin appears to have chosen me, where I only need consider _one_ of those qualities in any great detail. This simplifies things enormously, as you may imagine.

I will be teaching archaeology, some history, traps and lockpicking, and edificeering. I also have language skills and will be helping out in the modern languages department as appropriate.

_**Madame Emmanuelle-Marie Lapoignard les Deux-Épées (22)**_

I am from Quirm, yes, Is it obvious? My father is a swordsmith and my family has been dealing in weapons for many generations now. I am married, _certainement,_ but _mon mari_ is a Colonel in the Klatchian Foreign Legion and is away ten months of the year, so I have to find something useful to fill in the time. Therefore, a respectable profession like teaching, non?

I will be teaching swordsmanship, bladed weapons of all kinds, some metalwork, and physical education to the girls.

_**Miss Johanna Smith-Rhodes (20)**_

I am from Piemburg in Howondaland and I arrived in this city as part of the crew of a ship delivering vital trade goods to Ankh-Morpork. At home, I had just finished my National Service in the Armed Forces, in which I had the honour of serving with the Selouis Scouts in the north of my country. The Scouts are a quick-reaction _kommando_ trained to patrol the borders and punish incursion, and uniquely recruit women as something more than just non-combatant auxiliaries. I saw active service in the fighting that flares up with our neighbouring tribes, and learnt the arts of survival in jungle and desert. My passage as a member of the armed escort aboard ship had been my last service to my country before discharge. I was not looking forward to returning to civilian life again, so when the Assassins' Guild approached me with a proposition, I was eager to accept. I will be teaching natural studies, wilderness survival and informal combat skills.

_That is her! _Davinia's nerves shrilled. _She's the one they infiltrated into my shop! So the Assassins' Guild is after me too! _

"Vinnie, you look so pale" Berenice said, concerned. "Can I get you another drink?"

"Yes, please!"

Davinia scrutinised the face in the photo. Girlish, a hint of tomboy, plaited red hair, but those _eyes_…. Looking at the photo of Johanna Smith-Rhodes, Davinia Bellamy felt a stab of loss and fear. Joan Sanderson-Reeves was not comforting to behold, either. Davinia recalled the rumour, hastily quelled **(4)**, that she had been the original Marriage Guidance Counsellor and that the Guild had taken her in as a member on the strength of that alone.

That thought was comforting – the idea that all four of these women, despite having killed in cold blood, had been offered not the gallows but a new life.

Davinia closed her eyes and let her mind wander, at least till Berenice came back with more coffee.

* * *

**(1**) see _**Maskerade**_

**(2) **_**See**_** Making Money **for Berenice, an unhappy divorcee who reckoned it was still happier than a loveless marriage.

**(3) **In** Great Britain, **the D-Notice system is used to censor the press in very rare circumstances where Government does not want something to be publicly known and the newspaper can not be gently persuaded to drop the story. Although in these Internet days, most people can Google the foreign press to find out what the British government is trying to conceal, part of the reason why D-Notices have not been used for some time now…

**(4) **After Joan's arrest, the** Tanty Bugle **had led on her detention and speculated, loudly, that the MGC had been caught. The paper had been forced to retract in its next edition and state there was no truth in the rumour, and indeed by now most people had forgotten. Except those who obsessively filed every edition, that is…


	13. Back to school

_**The MGC returns? C14**_

"No, no, no, no, no, no and NO!" Joan Sanderson- Reeves shouted at her class, in mounting exasperation.

The class of second-year girls stopped and looked at her with expressions of apprehension, some of them drooping their heads with fear and worry in their eyes.

"Go back to the starting point, if you please!" she said, with brisk, businessslike, curtness. The girls shuffled and scraped back to one wall of the swordfighting arena, a large open space that was perfect for this lesson, although no swords were being used. The weapon Joan was teaching today was potentially more deadly, although harder to learn.

She surveyed her thirty twelve and thirteen year-olds, now lined up with their backs to the padded wall, and shook her head disapprovingly.

"Do you know" she said , frowning, "that were you Klatchians or Hershebians, and yes, I know you actually _are_, Miss bint-Hussein, at the age of thirteen you would not be considered _children_ any more. In some cultures around this Disc of ours, at the age of thirteen you are considered legally adult and may marry. In fact, the cultural expectation in many societies is that you _will_ marry and be counted as adult women for all legal purposes."

She allowed a few moments of "Ewwww!" and shrill disgusted noises as the deeper significance of what she was saying sank in. All apart from miss bint-Hussein, whose eyes betrayed a fiery impatient _yes-I-__**know**__,-what-are-you-telling-me-__**this**__-for?_

"I have met Klatchian gentlemen who are graduates of this Guild, and they assure me that I am not wrong in believing that there is a certain amount of beauty, a unique beauty, in fact, in the way a girl of twelve or thirteen composes and comports herself. This gives her a special value in Klatchian society, which the Klatchian language calls _porcola_, or worth-many-camels. **(1)****1**Now, I am not here to evaluate your worth to Klatchian buyers, except to note that as of this moment** , **were I to be looking to trade you all in for camels, I would be disappointed by a _most _unfavourable exchange rate!"

Joan let the barb sink in, and continued:

"I believe there is a unique and transitory beauty about girls of twelve and thirteen. I did not notice this myself at that age, nobody told me, and for me it is long gone without recall. This does **not **mean I approve of marriage at thirteen, but I do believe the Klatchians have it part-right."

"But look at you all! You are moving and walking, if I can call it that, as if you are _ashamed_ of being young and female. As if your bodies are something to fight and make an enemy of. You are letting your shoulders slump down and forward, your heads droops, your feet shuffle and scrape and you take silly awkward little steps like those Howondalandian flightless birds. It is not nice or pleasant to watch and you may be sure I will be eradicating it from your gait and carriage over the coming months. Raven House? At least a raven has a certain _perk _and _vigour_ in the way it moves! For the duration of today, ladies, you are Ostrich House!"

She scoured them with her eyes again.

"But happily for you, you have met me and I can put right these little deficiencies. When you learn the very basics, to walk and carry yourselves straight, everything else becomes easier! Madame Deux-Épées will see an improvement in your swordsmanship. Miss Band will undoubtedly approve of your enhanced ability to climb. Miss Smith-Rhodes will see you running further and faster when you go on wilderness survival training. You will sit up straighter and focus more in classrooms. And in later life you will be physically fitter because your body is doing what it was designed to do. _And you will do it with grace and style and poise, as befits Assassins!"_

She nodded towards the small side table that she and Humphrey – _dear_ Humphrey – had set up just as the class were entering. She noted that all of them had looked dubiously at it as Mr Mericet had, with infinite caution, brought in the brown-glass Winchesters of nameless liquid chemicals in a ceramic carrying box. He was also wearing thick leather gauntlets to the elbow. The two teachers had gone through a pre-arranged routine.

"It makes me proud to see a teacher who respects the, ah, _old-fashioned_ teaching methods of this Guild, miss Sanderson-Reeves." Mr Mericet had said, in a dry respectful voice, as he set up for her.

"Sometimes, Mr Mericet, the old-fashioned ways are the best. Tried and trusted, and all that!" Joan had replied.

Mr Mericet straightened up.

"You did, ah, inform the sickroom that there may be casualties?"

"Of course, Mr Mericet!." Joan had said, with a smile, watching the effect on her pupils.

"I'd love to stay and watch. But classes demand, and all that. Send word when you are done and I'll collect the working materials."

He had left, and Joan was with her class.

"Now, ladies." Joan said, cheerfully. "Of all the occupations and trades in this fine and great city, name me the one where professional ladies comport themselves with pride. They always walk with their heads held high and their backs stiff and straight. They take pride in their appearance and the way they walk and move and present themselves in public. Who are these ladies?"

She waited for a raised hand, and nodded.

"Er… Assassins, miss?"

Joan raised an eyebrow.

"Not much evidence of that in this classroom yet!"

"Well… there's you, miss. Lady T'malia. Lady de Meserole."

"Lady de Meserole prefers to have people guess."

"And Miss Band and Miss Smith-Rhodes and Madam Deux-Épées.."

Good point. Well stated. But there are only five of us so far!" Joan said. "There will be a lot more graduate female Assassins in a few years and, _you hope,_ in the fullness of time, this will include you. But what I'm looking for is a long-established occupational Guild where women carry themselves with decorum and pride in being women."

"Thieves, miss?"

Joan threw a withering glare.

"Have you _seen_ graduates of their school? Scruffy articles. No idea about carriage or deportment. No, ladies. I mean _seamstresses. _They are good. They train in deportment – I used to work as a freelance teacher in Deportment and Elocution for their Guild, when I ran the private school. Damn fine pupils!"

Joan paused a moment and added: "The Seamstresses' Guild has a good rule. That the Seamstress should strive to be of the same or slightly higher social class to her client so as to put him at rest. I agree with that. The Concordat tells us the assassin should blend seamlessly in any company. You will learn that here, ladies. Now gather round where you can see."

The class obediently moved forwards.

"This is a chemical. It is called sweet spirits of nitre**(2)****2**. I have poured some in the saucer here. This is an ordinary penny. Observe."

Joan dropped the coin into the liquid, which began to fizz and boil and fume around the copper.

"Now there's a penny I'll never get back" she observed. She lifted, with care, the other carboy on the table and poured more clear fluid into another saucer.

"Observe" she said, putting the carboy down and replacing the cork.

"I will demonstrate. This is the end result you will all be working for in my lessons. Later on in the term we shall have a little test."

With infinite care and gasps from the class, Joan lifted the saucer with both hands, paused and aligned it, and balanced it on top of her head. She now had the undivided attention of thirty girls, some of whom were wide eyed, biting their fingers, or making worried noises. Without looking round, she said _"Fingernails, _miss Trace. We do not bite them. What have you been told? "

Joan then walked, with slow but steady pace, to the far wall of the arena, some forty yards away. She turned, with absolute concentrated focus, knowing the liquid in the saucer would be mirror-smooth and not rippling. Then she returned to the class, removed and lowered the saucer, and poured the liquid back into the appropriate carboy. The stink of acid and degraded copper still hung heavy in the air.3**(3)**

"This is _doable_." she said. "You will all become confident enough in your own deportment to successfully walk the length of this room, turn, and walk back, whilst balancing a saucer on your head. Anyone worried? Anyone overconfident enough to want to try it now? No? I thought not. We will therefore do it with a book on our head, instead. You have all just come from the Compt de Yoyo's lesson in Applied Geography, have you not? Bring out the standard text, if you please, you should all have one!"

Relieved, the girls went scurrying to their schoolbags. As the rest of the lesson was punctuated with the thud and scrape of dropped books, Joan permitted herself an enigmatic smile.

_I told the damn gels to observe, but they didn't observe closely enough. _she thought. _It's true Humphrey provided enough sweet spirits of nitre to dissolve a copper coin, but there were _**two **_carboys on the table. None of 'em twigged the saucer I carried on my head only had distilled water in it. But I can still hack it with the best of 'em, I never spilt a drop! _

Enjoying her work, Joan moved among them, cajoling and encouraging, till the bell went, and it was time for a cup of tea in the staffroom.

Mid-afternoon break in the staffroom was a generally relaxed one, with only one more block of formal lessons before the end of the teaching day. Some staff members were already taking the opportunity to mark tests and schoolwork, others looking over lesson plans for the next day. Joan moved through the nicotine permahaze and joined the non-smokers in their window recess.

"I think I gave a few of yours the material for some bad dreams tonight, m'dear." she said to Johanna Smith Rhodes. Johanna raised a doubting eyebrow.

"Worse than being on the run from every sentient species on the Disc, heving offended _everybody_?" she inquired. "I took mine in Linoleum's Clessifications."4**(4)**

"Excluding the bits about dwarfs, trolls, vampires and werewolves?"

Johanna nodded. "I make a point of telling the cless that some parts of Linoleum's work ere thought of es contentious. They ought to be eble to work it out for themselves!"

"And of course the Dwarfs and the Trolls can have a jolly good laugh over _homo sapiens _and ask where the wisdom is. " Joan agreed.

"Wherever it was, Carleus Linoleum didn't have it." Alice Band remarked. She was in working overalls, having just taken an archaeology class down to an accessible part of the Undercity to view Latatian ruins at first-hand. Her pick and shovel were stacked close to hand.

"What sort of compulsory-voluntary after-school activities are we all signed up for tonight?" Alice inquired, sipping her tea.

"I'm taking a group of students to the Petricien's Pelece Menagerie." Johanna said. "Professor Ettenborough from the University wents to retire from being Lord Vetineri's scientific advisor. He is looking for a successor."

"Well, he _is _over ninety now. Large animal work does tend to call for people to be fitter and more vigorous."

"Especially efter the elephant set on him." Johanna said, reflectively. " Elephants _know_."

"And Vetinari asked for you." Alice said, reflectively. "by name."

"You do not refuse. With twenty students end this troll enimel keeper, Eshphelt, we should be able to clean the cage, hose down the elephant, end feed and bed the creature down. A good lesson for the students, I think. I em pleased so many volunteered."

"Ashphalt. I've seen that chap about. A bit, er, _conical_, for a troll?"**(5)****5**

"But a lot of experience with elephants." Johanna said, firmly. "End you, Joan?"

"The usual after-school homework club. You sound more cynical than usual, Alice?"

"Planning for a parents' evening for later in the term. I couldn't dodge Lord Downey quickly enough and he co-opted me onto the committee. That's two hours of my life I'm never going to get back!"

They sipped their tea in silence, watching the life of the staffroom going on about them.

"I wonder why Emmanuelle never seems to get landed with any after-hours teaching." mused Alice.

"I wasn't going to say that!" Joan said. "There's probably a good reason for it."

As one, they looked across to where Madame Emmanuelle Lapoignard les Deux-Épées was in the centre of an admiring throng of young male teachers, laughing, joking and smoking. She took a long drag of her cheroot and waved a hello.

"Filthy habit. She'll feel it when she's fifty." Joan observed.

There was a silence.

"You know, girls, speaking of large Howondalandian animals, there's a jolly big one in the room right now". said Joan.

"I think I know what you mean." Johanna said, frowning.

"The Marriage Guidance Counsellor, so-called. "It's been six weeks now without any new lead or trace. Do you really think she's lying low?"

"Or even reformed?" asked Alice.

"I doubt it!" Joan snorted. "You get onto that particular elephant's back, and it gets to be damned hard to steer. The ground is an awfully long way down, so you can't get off, and anyway it's moving too fast. You just have to go where it leads you, and hope."

"We've been watching her. The Palace have been watching her. The _Watch_ have been watching her. By all accounts, our Doctor Bellamy has been living the life of a model citizen. The only thing of note is that Brindisi University has approved her outline PhD – you know, the one in man-eating plants - and at some point she has to go there for their Convivium. That sort of thing takes time and effort and your hobbies, like illegal Assassination, have to take second place! But sooner or later…"

* * *

Davinia Bellamy sat in her study at home and ran her fingers over the new framed degree scroll, proclaiming her Doctorate in Biological and Botanical Science. Like all new academics, she still couldn't believe she had, quietly and without any fuss, ascended another rung up the totem pole. She knew this posted scroll was a honorific thing ahead of the actual formal conferment: the University had posted her a degree certificate to frame for the office wall, in recognition of the fact she ran her own business and this was good for establishing her credentials.

On the day, the Arch-Chancellor would shake hands with her and present, for the look of the thing and the iconograph, a rolled piece of parchment tied with red ribbon, and that was just for the show of it – on the day it might as well be a receipt for ten thousand toilet rolls tied in ribbon. But the family had all shared their pride in Mother's enormous brain and that she officially knew all there was to know about plants plus a bit more on top. Peter had expressed his enormous relief that this was what she needed to stop her doing the other thing, and to bring her back on the straight and narrow again.

But never too far away from the surface was the itch, the desire, the yearning, to make the world a cleaner place, to carry on saying it with flowers, even if all the flowers had to say was a dozen inventively different permutations on the phrase "Drop dead!"

And she'd regretfully turned down three possible commissions in the last few weeks… sooner or later she would crack and give in.

And then what, with all the eyes she knew were watching her?

She sighed. Had she been religious, apart from necessary libations to the Disc Goddesses, she might have prayed.

But the moment was going to come, and it would come soon….

* * *

**(1)** The London **Guardian** courted trouble once by exploring this concept – the way the Arab North African world specially values the unique beauty of adolescent girls, of an age Western European and North American law would describe as so far underage as to constitute statutory rape. The liberal newspaper was exploring the culture clash between western and Arab ways of thinking, but ended up accused of paedophilia by Western critics and of being racist and anti-Islamic by Arab critics, ending up pleasing nobody.

(2) The old name for nitric acid.

**(3) Some advanced schools of yoga do this as a pupil test or as a spectacular public display, in much the same way the more showy black-belt karate donjons demonstrate breaking bricks with the bare hands in public. **

**(4)**It's like this. Carl Linoleum was a natural scientist who had a brilliant vision for organising and classifying the known animal and botanical species of the Disc. Following a lifetime of observation, he had an insight of genius, that all animal and plant species could be seen as a large sprawling interrelated family. Thus they could be given Latatian names (Latatian being the language of science) denoting exactly where they belonged in the family tree, _Felis Leo (lion) Felis Tigris (Tiger)and Felis Nuisencis(domestic Cat) _all belonging on the same general branch_._ While later naturalists and animal scientists, including Johanna, would come to agree with the basic soundness of the idea, they would deplore the mis-placed and as it turned out, fatal, sense of humour that had led Linoleum to classify Trolls as _Stultus Saxum (Stupid rocks), _Dwarfs as_ Hortus Decorum (Garden Ornaments) _Vampires as _Nosferatu Sanguinae (Bloody Undead) _and Werewolves as_ Canii Bonii (Good Doggies). _The Watch, after realising a list of suspects would be as thick as_ Twurp's Peerage, _elected to treat his death as a case of suicide. Linoleum is a canonical character TP invented for the _Discworld Noir _computer game.

On Roundworld, Swedish genius Carl Linnaeus.

**(5) **Ashphalt appears in _**Soul Music **_as roadie to the Band, taking a break from his vocation of elephant-wrangling. His conical shape is due to the essential softness of his being and the fact he has been sat upon by elephants so often. They _know_.


	14. Vetinari takes a hand

_**The MGC returns? C15**_

The evening at the Palace menagerie passed quickly. Johanna used it as an opportunity to train her students in the mechanics of cleaning out large animal cages, the first and most obvious factor being to drive home the message that animals are territorial and do not appreciate their space being intruded into, even if it is being done with the best of reasons. And if your given task is to assist two elderly keepers and an enthusiastic but ineffectual troll with clearing out a fortnight's worth of accumulations from the elephant cages, then the first prerequisite is that the elephants should _not_ be in there with you while you're doing it.

Therefore she assisted, while familiar faces and hands chivvied the elephants out into a temporary holding enclosure whose specific purpose appeared unfamiliar to her. It certainly had all the space to accommodate two elephants comfortably, but the oversized running wheel, that could have accommodated a mammoth?

Puzzled, she turned to Mr Grinchlow, who at sixty-six was one of the younger keepers in the Menagerie. He touched his cap slightly.

"Won an architectural award, miss!" he said, slightly defensively. "The Burgholt Stuttley Johnson Hamster Cage!"

Johanna nodded. She'd heard of B.S. Johnson. This made a special sort of sense. She'd also heard of the Guild of Architects, an organisation that was forever entranced by stylistic victories of form over function, and gave prestigious prizes to buildings that looked good but catastrophically failed to do what they were meant to. She'd heard Johnson had a special cabinet built for his architectural prizes.

"Tell me, Mr Grinchlow. Did Mr Johnson elso design elephant enclosures?"

"That he did, miss!" Grinchlow said, beaming. "I got it in the office somewhere, in a desk drawer…"

Johanna turned away, trying not to let her Howondalandian soul be affronted by the spectacle of Daphne the elephant climbing into the treadmill, and the deep-pitched croaking and groaning as it spun into life.

"Daphne loves her exercise periods so." Grinchlow said, through a seraphic smile. "That Mr Da Quirm, who lives up the Palace, he wants to attach the spindle to a machine that he thinks will generate power. Mind you, he's a loony. It'll never work."

"Hes nobody ever tried?"

"He were burbling a bit and he weren't too clear about it, but powering a lightning lemon from a machine operated by an elephant rotating a treadmill? That's loony, if ever I heard loony!"

Johanna sighed and dropped the topic.

"We ere ell yours, Mr Grinchlow. Show us where the pumps and hoses are, end where the Pelece gardeners keep the wheelbarrows end spades, end we cen stert work!"

"Right you are, miss. So you're from Howondaland? You'll have seen these animals in the wild, a whole flock of elephants? I only saw more'n two the once, when the Moving Pictures were on and this clever little sod from round your way delivered a thousand to the city gates. They din't half make a mess of the cabbage harvest!"**(1)**

"It was before my time here, Mr Grinchlow" Johanna said, feigning innocence. She remembered it had caused a diplomatic incident between her home country and Ankh-Morpork, each claiming the other had behaved badly and irresponsibly. She vaguely remembered her uncle, who was a civil servant in the exports department, had issued export licences and passports to the two blacks who had received Dibbler's order, as he had seen a trade opportunity**(2)**.

And anyway, elephants were a protected species who b ecause they were protected, were causing a bleddy nuisance on the Veldt, and needed a way of thinning their numbers without culling them. Her uncle had also been the sort of liberal who'd argued for years that black Howondalandians should be allowed greater freedoms for overseas trade as it would enrich the country as a whole. His career hadn't survived the debacle, but oddly enough, neither of the blacks involved had been censured on their return – their misfortune was put down to Ankh-Morpork being bleddy unreasonable and stroeppy-awkward. They'd been feted as heroes, in fact.

"We kept these two, anyway, miss, as the Menagerie needed new elephants".

She nodded, and took a step towards the male elephant. It looked suspiciously down at her through piggy little eyes and flapped its ears in warning.

"I wouldn't go _too_ near, miss. He can get funny."

"What's his name?" she asked, making eye contact.

"Hendrik **(3)**, miss. The Patrician insisted. That black lad who delivered the elephants was riding on his back. Lordship had one of his little smiles on at the time."

"Yes, I'll bet he did!"

Johanna took a step further, without breaking eye contact, and gently said

"_Hendrik. Ek is seker jy dit nie gehoor het hierdie taal in 'n ruk, hmmm?"_

The elephant inclined its head to her with an "I'm listening" expression on its face.

"Do you heve eny rusk or mealiepap or eny hup? Suitable food, thet is. I believe he will feed from me. Is kiff, Hendrik."

The old keeper practically ran to fetch some stale bread buns.

"What did you say to him, miss? He's usually difficult around new faces!"

"It's because he doesn't speak Morporkien, thet's why!" Johanna said, allowing a bun to be taken from her hand. "I told him I bet nobody's spoken proper Vondalaans to him in years. End if he didn't respond to thet, I hed some Zulu fired up and ready to go!"

She gently removed an affectionate trunk from her shoulder, and led her new friend to see what the students were up to. She knew they were a capable group: several teams were setting up water pumps and hoses from the Palace wells, others had set to in the cages with shovels and wheelbarrows. As the wheelbarrows were filled, others were pushing them off to the Palace compost heaps elsewhere in the gardens. She spoke to the pumping teams and explained that elephants are cleanly animals. There is nothing they like better than to cool themselves in the rain or to spray each other with water. While you are waiting to clean the cages, I would like you to spray a lot of water over Hendriks. He will appreciate that.

Leaving a happy elephant trumpeting his appreciation for a bath, she took a turn in the cage loading a wheelbarrow, enjoying the simple healthy exercise of it. Pushing the barrow out, she half-glimpsed a black clad figure falling into step with her. Taking him for a student at first, she was about to fire off a loaded comment on the benefits of hard work, and why are you not doing any. Then looked again, and sagged slightly with relief that she had held the remark back. Her students might be wearing black, but she was pretty sure none of them had a well-trimmed goatee beard.

"My Lord?"

"The very capable miss Smith-Rhodes, I think. I won't in the circumstances ask to shake your hand, but you and your pupils are doing a fine job. Commendable. May we talk? Away from the students and Palace staff?"

Johanna smiled and wheeled the barrow on. In the circumstances it was a hard offer to refuse.

"None of my gardeners are anywhere to be seen, I note." The Patrician remarked. "Strictly speaking, this end of the task is theirs."

"It's no problem, sir. I ellowed for this".

"Indeed. My colleague here advises me you made something of a breakthrough in an ongoing investigation some time ago."

The Dark Clerk known to her as Mr _{[Cough}} _fell into step with them. He nodded pleasantly at them. Johanna wasn't surprised, Before setting out, she had advised her students that they were going into the heart of the government buildings as student Assassins, and in the case of eight of us, as nationals of other countries. We _will_ be watched. I want you to treat this as an additional exercise and look out for the people watching you, and for the sort of places that you could be observed from . We can discuss this later. Thank you.

"The vexatious case of the serial killer known popularly as the Marriage Guidance counsellor. I understand that using your diplomatic accreditation, you were able to penetrate the premises of the prime suspect and make a very detailed report which added further circumstantial evidence indicating that she is, indeed, the killer we are searching for. Excellent work. The Guild student who accompanied you is also to be praised, of course. "

Vetinari fell silent for a moment. Mr _{{Cough}}_ took over the account.

"As the past few weeks have been quiet with little new information and no new inhumations, the members of the investigating team have perhaps been too busy catching up with their other duties to realise that the prime suspect was very badly shaken by your visit. She perhaps had an intimation you were not all you claimed to be. She may even have seen you before somewhere in your substantive occupation as Assassin. Who knows? In any case, she was subsequently seen to visit the offices of the Ankh-Morpork Times. The observing team following her did not put too high an importance on this visit. They made what in other circumstances would have been the correct deduction that as a lady of means who runs a thriving business, Doctor Bellamy was visiting the Times to discuss advertising, and nothing more significant than that transpired."

"However" said Vetinari, "when the Times' archivist, Ms. Hauser, attended her God of the Month session, and made her peace with the God Cephut**(4)** by, metaphorically speaking, shaving the sins from her soul in a closed confessional. Alas for confidentiality, the gargoyle perched on the wall above the confessional was working for me. Being bound by no oath of confidentiality, he of course came to me."

Vetinari smiled a very slight satisfied smile. Johanna listened.

"Doctor Bellamy asked to search old archive copies of the Times with the intention of locating iconographs that proved her suspicions concerning the Assassins' Guild being close on her tracks. Ms. Hauser located graduation photographs from some years previously, which allowed Doctor Bellamy to ascertain that the Howondalandian Embassy employee named as Johanna van der Kaiboetje was in fact the licenced Assassin called Johanna Smith-Rhodes. She is now in some perturbation as to exactly why an Assassin should have called on her with an assumed name and identity. The good ms Hauser was very concerned for her friend and went on to confess that some time ago, they discussed ways and means of , er, _removing_, Mr Hauser from this vale of tears. Happily for his continued existence, however, the Hausers chose divorce as a less drastic means of ending their marriage. But Ms. Hauser, who I believe to be a woman of sterling morality, remains guilty that she considered murder and regarded it as a matter for the confessional.

"She was rather struck by her friend's intimate knowledge of plant-derived poisons and related toxins. She also related in the confessional that Doctor Bellamy assured her she could make it look like a natural death, and had in fact arranged this on one or two prior occasions, in return for a fee of five or six thousand dollars.

"Ms. Hauser is very concerned that her friend has brought the wrath of the Guild of Assassins down on her head. As is, indeed, Doctor Bellamy."

Johanna felt her mind beginning to work on the possibilities.

"But, sir, is it not safeguarded in law that the religious confessional is sacred and private, end enything said there may not be repeated outside, nor used to incriminate a person in the court?"

She hoped not: having learned to trust him, she'd said a few deep and personal things, in strict privacy, to the Guild's chaplain, who she counted as a close friend.

The Patrician shook his head.

"Unhappily, you have stated the case. A confession derived in these circumstances would be ruled inadmissible in court. We are still tied by the rule of law and of gathering conclusive admissible evidence. But we can use this knowledge indirectly, in other ways."

Mr _{[Cough}}_ spoke again.

"She is a frightened woman living with a secret. We can make use of that, Apply psychological pressure. She knows you are an Assassin. It would be advantageous if she were to see you occasionally in the street. Chance encounters. Perhaps you should go to the pet shop on Pelicool Steps? You have a special interest in animals, after all, and Miss Speaker is keen to expand into exotics, such as snakes and reptiles. They are a special interest of yours, I believe? You might wish to, perhaps, suggest Miss Speaker acts as an agent for selling the more, ah, harmless, creatures you breed at the Guild, and which are surplus to requirements. Or you might wish to buy tanks and equipment through her, as you always have a need for vivariums."

"And I believe there is a very good Brindisian restaurant on the other side of Bellamy's Florists". Vetinari added. "I would consider that to be the ideal venue for lady teachers at the Guild school to have a lunch outside the Guild. The menu at the Guild is good, but it gets a trifle repetitive, don't you think? We had mixed grill on a Thursday night in my day!"

"Can we claim expenses?" Johanna forced herself to ask. The patrician laughed, humourlessly.

"On production of a valid receipt. I might allow generosity concerning your selection from the wine list. Ah, here are my gardeners, to, I hope, take this noxious wheelbarrow from your hands."

They walked back to the Menagerie together.

"Let her see you on Pelicool Steps." Vetinari urged. "Not as a stalker, of course, but always as a person with a legitimate interest for being in the area. Let her worry. It will eat her mind. By all means take the redoubtable Miss Sanderson-Reeves with you. Or Miss Band, as I understand Lord Downey is about to turn down her request for dedicated climbing walls on cost grounds. Ideally shortly after she gets the memo."

Vetinari smiled, and smoothly changed tack as another couple of barrowloads of elephant dung approached, propelled by cheerfully sweating students.

"I have instructed the kitchen to lay on refreshments for your students." he said. "I know they will already have eaten at the Guild, but hard work and young appetites, and all that. It gives me a chance to thank them personally, too. "

The barrows passed.

"I know I'm asking a lot of somebody who already has a very busy week, but with Professor Attenborough now indisposed, I will require an advisor on animal handling matters You are simply the most outstanding candidate. Expenses will be paid, of course, but this is pro bono, for the good of the city…"

"I eccept, sir. Does it make a difference thet I em not a Morporkien netional?"

"You are a licenced Assassin. You are also a citizen of the Republic of Rimwards Howondaland and have occasional diplomatic accreditation. As a trained Assassin and one who moves in diplomatic circles, I'm sure you know how the game is played. If I have information that I wish neither your uncle the ambassador nor Lord Downey to know about, I will endeavour not to discuss it in front of you. Otherwise you might feel obliged to inform them. I would not blame you for that, you have other loyalties. But I would not place you in an impossible position either. I would trust your good sense and judgement to treat occasional work at the Palace like, perhaps…"

"..the confessional box?" Johanna found herself saying.

Vetinari laughed.

"Indeed, miss Smith-Rhodes. The confessional box."

_But as the penitent inside or as the gargoyle on the wall above_, she wondered. She noted Vetinari had deliberately not made this clear.

New thoughts were occupying her mind as to how psychological pressure could be applied to Davinia Bellamy. She'd have a word with Joan and Alice later.

* * *

**(1) **See _**Moving Pictures, **_where two Howondalandian entrepreneurs bring a herd of one thousand elephants to the city to meet a request from clacks mogul C.M.O.T. Dibbler.

**(2) **This unprecedented issue of passports and the right to independent travel to two Howondalandian blacks had caused controversy in the Staadt, but Johanna's uncle had argued, persuasively, that two black citizens herding an ever-growing herd of elephants Hubwards were going to bleddy well go where they pleased anyway, passports and export licences or not. It was better for the look of the thing and the maintenance of apartheid if they were given official permission. This way it could be presented as an exercise in racial harmony, it would look good in an overseas press that was forever making critical noises about Rimwards Howondaland, and be seen as an unprecedented liberal gesture.

**(3) **On Roundworld, "Hendriks" was the forename of a Boer politican who was one of the architects of the apartheid regime.

Vetinari is presumably making a political joke about his Discworld counterpart.

**(4) Cephut **is the god of Cutlery. His remit is understood to include all those things with blades created by Cutlers, which have a positive environmentally friendly non-lethal application, such as canteens of cutlery, kitchen knices, bladed catering utensils, plowshares, and of course shaving razors. The supplicant is therefore invited to shave away her sins from her soul using the blade of her tongue, as she does the very unwanted hairs from her legs and underarms or bodily area of cultural choice.

However, Cephut himself has pointed out that there is a demarcation issue here, as the skills of the cutler, in time of war, become those of the swordsmith. And look at the number of domestic killings brought about by housewives, forced to the brink, who reach for the kitchen knife. Also regard what a plowshare famously might have been before it became a plowshare. And since none of you thick bloody War Gods have thought these issues through, none of you have staked a claim to being the god of swordsmiths, so _**I'm**_ claiming 'em. Look, friend, what else is a sword but a longer heavier knife… Cephut, following the collapse of the theological system in Djelibeybi which nurtured him (see _**Pyramids**_) , and who had been summoned into the world in a state of some confusion when Time and Space went critical in that country, saw no reason to dissappear into the void of Small Gods when normality reasserted itself, following the fall of the Pyramid and the temporal relocation of Dios. Instead, he had given some tought as to how a man-shaped God with the head of a dog could thrive in this exciting new world, and rrealised that because every home on the Disc has some sort of set of eating utensils, there was a niche for him to occupy.

Helped by the Goddess Errata and that business over the Tsortean Falchion (see Terry Pratchett's script for the computer game _**Discworld Noir**_), Cephut wrested demarcation rights and some power from the War Gods by a practical application of brains baffling bullshit. He is believed to have come to a subsequent amicable agreement with the Goddess Anoia, a deity whose remit resonates in harmony with his (before a drawer can stick, somebody needs to twist a knife, fork or blunt-bladed kitchen utensil such as a spatula, just _so.) _

It looks as if the Anoia-Cephut partnership is propelling both Gods further up the ladder...


	15. Dinner at the Bellamys

_**The MGC returns? C16**_

The Bellamy family sat down to a relaxed evening meal. Cooking and serving dinner was something Davinia did rarely these days – Peter was a good basic cook and happily prepared meals for the family on those days she was working late at the shop. However, she had wanted to make the dinner tonight as a gesture, of love to her family certainly, but one that also felt like a last despairing attempt to grasp whatever shreds of normality lingered on, before the trap clamped shut and the game was up.

She wondered if it would cause problems for Peter if she was remanded to the Tanty. Would he be suspended? Would he be, very pointedly, sent away on compulsory paid leave until the last morning? What sort of awful banter would Mr Trooper come up with on the scaffold? Did that man really stay up late preparing his script? He certainly seemed to make a music hall turn out of an execution. And of course, it could all still go the other way…. She carefully avoided he question of how Peter and the boys were to manage when she was gone.

The Bellamys' guest at table wasn't helping. Oh, she was a pleasant girl, a neighbours' child they'd known since she was a baby. A friend of Simon's and about the same age, Davinia's mother-senses were working to ascertain whether it was still an innocent childhood friendship between two people who'd grown up together in the same street, or whether it was something more. With them both turning thirteen, the possibility was there and she felt she ought to be alert to it.

But Peggy Cregan was a day pupil at the Assassins' Guild School, and she was still in her uniform when she sat down to eat with them, having just got back from the after-school homework prep class for day students.

"It's got to be a strange place to go to school." Peter observed, as she served the rabbit-and-vegetable pie that was to be dinner.

"You must get the usual sorts of lessons – maths, language, literature, history, foreign languages, that all kids get in school. But the things you have to do on top of that…"

"That's about half the timetable." Peggy confirmed. "All the boring stuff anybody at school does anywhere. The teachers who do these subjects don't need to be full Assassins, although most of them seem to be. Mr Mycroft, my Maths teacher, I don't think he's a full Assassin, but you wouldn't want him getting all _sarcastic_ at you. And even he brings being an Assassin into it. He'll set a question, like if three Assassins go out on a contract worth thirty-seven thousand dollars and the Guild takes fifty per cent, and the other three share the balance as a third and two twelfths, how does it all break down in dollars, please show working. And then he'll add questions about completion bonuses and compound interest to make it _really _difficult."

She shuddered, theatrically.

"But you don't necessarily have to become an Assassin?" Davinia questioned her. "I hear a lot of people just go there for the general education and leave at the end of the fifth year as associate Guild members."

"We don't have to make the choice until the end of fourth year" Peggy said. "By then, all the normal stuff is done with, practically. We take the exams if we want to or if the teachers think we're good enough. You get a chance to take other subjects in Fifth Year if you haven't taken the Black, or to retake exams if you fail or you aren't good enough at the end of Fourth. People who choose Black, though, move onto the Black Syllabus where they're doing nothing but training to be full licenced Assassins. That's three years, through fifth form, lower sixth and upper sixth. You learn all these cool skills and methods , but the downside is that you have to take the Final Exam, there's no going back. I haven't decided yet."

"I shouldn't think you'd have much of a problem." Peter said, respectfully. This was true enough; at the age of ten, Peggy had been the victim of a street attack by one of the more feral inhabitants of the Shades, who had felt the dark urge rising to cross the city to a place where parents felt safe enough to let their kids play out in the street, in order to assault a little girl. The little girl he had picked on had turned into a fighting wildcat, and while she hadn't killed him, she'd inflicted substantial soft-tissue damage, enough to leave her attacker writhing in a world of pain all of his own. Hearing the screams, Peter Bellamy had run out of the house to discover Peggy, in a torn dress that told its own story, hysterically stamping on the man's kneecaps and screaming incoherently.

Later, the Watch identified him as a man wanted for other crimes, and Peter Bellamy had in the fullness of time escorted him to the gallows. A cigar-smoking Commander Vimes had nodded at him from the roadside, one professional to another, as the execution procession left the Tanty. "Just want to make sure he's dead." Vimes had said, affably.

At the trial, Vetinari had noted Peggy's part in bringing the criminal to justice, and had asked her to stay afterwards. In a side-room at the palace, she and her parents had been introduced to Lady T'Malia, who had made a strong case that a young girl with such natural skills should be educated as a scholarship pupil at the Guild school. "She has exceptionally strong natural aggression, Mr Cregan." T'Malia had said. "We are uniquely equipped to train her to use it and control it. Would _you_ feel entirely comfortable for her to return to normal life, knowing she very nearly killed her would-be attacker? Unmanaged, that aggression could explode again at any time."

_They're paying the bulk of Peggy's school fees because they identified her as a useful investment, _Davinia thought. _But however they're doing it, they're doing it well, as she's so well-adjusted and there hasn't been a repetition since._

"Who's your form teacher?" Peter asked, interested.

"Miss Sanderson-Reeves. She's in charge of all day pupils and we register in her classroom every morning."

"I met her not so long ago! She had to visit the Tanty on business." He paused, and added, very carefully, "She would make an outstanding prison officer."

Peggy and the boys laughed. Davinia looked thoughtful.

"Everyone says she's an old witch and they're all a bit frightened of her, but I don't know, really. All I know is, if you do what she says and don't mess her about, she can be fair. Get past the pineapple, and she's alright, really."

"What does she teach?"

"Domestic Science, elocution and deportment. She helps Mr Mericet in the Poisons department, sometimes. The rumour is they're, er…."

"Good for her." said Davinia. "A woman can be _errr_ at any age. You never get too old to be _err_!"

"Mum!" protested Tim and Martin..

"_Whatever_ men think."

"Apparently" said Peggy, in a lower voice, "she inhumed _twenty-four_ men as a freelance before the Guild recruited her. They say she was the original Marriage Guidance Counsellor!"

"Really?" said Davinia and Peter together, genuinely interested.

(Peter was thinking _so that's why we prepared a cell on Death Row but never got a body to occupy it. The rumours were true. She was offered an Angel!_

While Davinia was thinking _So the Guild do recruit promising adult candidates. But will they make that offer to me as an alternative to…)_

"We're all wondering, what with this new serial killer calling herself the Marriage Guidance Counsellor, whether Miss Sanderson-Reeves has gone back to her old life? I mean, we're all warned to beware of inhuming for inhumation's sake. They say it gets to be like one of those funny ess-drugs to trolls, once you start you can never ever stop, and sooner or later you get careless... mrs Bellamy?"

Davinia realised she was giving things away through her face.

"What? Oh, nothing, Peggy, I was just thinking how terrible that must be…"

Peter said, to lighten the atmosphere, "Do you know, she gets respect from Miss Maccalariat? That takes some doing. Your Miss Sanderson-Reeves reminds me of my drill-sergeant in the old days. They have to teach you a lot of difficult skills in a very short time and they have to be very blunt and direct in doing it. And a lot of the things she teaches sound like Army drill, the elocution and the deportment and so forth. They're bodily movements you have to unlearn, and new ones you have to learn, by constant rote repetition and practice until you get it _right._ It's boring, it's crushing, but it's _necessary. _And nobody ever _loves_ their drill sergeant. Thirty years later, though, when you're still walking with your head up and your shoulders straight and you find yourself slipping back into the "stand-at-ease" when you're relaxed, you realise what the DS was trying to tell you about good posture and body control, and you'll thank him for it. I'm sure you will, too, with Miss Sanderson-Reeves."

"Oh, deportment." Peggy said. "You'll never guess what she did in deportment class to get us to concentrate. She had a bottle of acid, an actual bottle of _acid_, and a _saucer_…."

She explained the saucer of acid demonstration, as successive classes of students had seen it.

Peter exhaled, appreciatively.

"Well, all I can say is that I'm glad Sergeant Protheroe never thought of that" he said. "We'd all be carrying the scars to this day!"

"It takes a woman" Davinia agreed. "Men don't have it in them to be quite that inventively nasty."

"Usually, the men teachers are easier to get on with than the women. That doesn't mean they can't be sarcastic or hard on you sometimes, but they're different. I think a lot of them haven't had much experience of teaching girls before. Mr Bradlofrudd**(1)**1, the Games master, I think he's so used to classes of boys that he forgot once, he walked into the changing room after Games bellowing at us to get a bloody move on and get dressed. Everything went quiet, you know, pin-drop quiet, then he realised and said "whoops…" and walked out again. We all know he didn't do it deliberately, but we tease him about it! After that, if one of the women teachers is available or even one of the women staff or a prefect, she supervises the changing room for him if he has to take a girls' class."

"Is he an Assassin?" asked Davinia, trying to visualise the contradiction of an Assassin P.E. Master. _He'd be a killer, yes, with a club with a nail through it. But aren't Assassins meant to be stylish and intellectually articulate and well-dressed?_

"He does wear a black tracksuit, yes. With purple piping, and purple ribbon on his whistle, so we know he's a teacher. Apparently he inhumed the headmaster at his last school after a really bad argument. The Guild snapped him up after that and gave him a second chance."

"What about the other lady teachers?" asked Peter.

"There aren't many yet. Miss Band's OK. She's can be strict, but she knows when to be kinder and less formal. Madame Deux-Épées is really fun. If you get her for swords, she really makes it interesting, although it's hard work. She's a laugh, which doesn't mean you aren't learning anything. Get her in a classroom covering a formal sitting-down lesson and it can go anywhere!"

"Is there a Howondalandian teacher? With very striking red hair?" Davinia forced herself to ask.

"Oh, that will be Miss Smith-Rhodes! She does biology, natural history, zoology, in the classroom. Outside, she does animal management and welfare, and wilderness survival. They say she also teaches things like Use of Exothermic Reagents and unorthodox combat to pupils studying for the Black."

"Exo-what?" asked Tim Bellamy.

"Explosives, dummy. Like fireworks, only less sparkly light and more _kaboom_. She blows things up!" his brother Simon translated. "_Seriously _cool!"

"I _really_ like her." Peggy said. "There are a dozen pupils in my year who all got to be Scholarship after….well, after the same kind of thing that happened to me. " She looked troubled and unhappy for a moment. "We all have a group session with Johanna once a week. Did you know she killed a man when she was eleven? She knows what it's like. Any worries or bad memories we can talk to her about. She _knows_."

"First name terms?" Peter inquired.

"Only behind a closed door in her office. Anywhere else, it's Miss Smith-Rhodes."

"I'm glad the Guild is looking after you so well" Davinia said, pleasantly.

Although inside she was thinking _That is a picture of a determined woman. Who while not without decency and honour, has not refrained from killing in the past. And she is coming after me. What do I do?_

She forestalled a squabble between two sons by saying "Timothy, Martin, clear the plates up. Now. Thank you." In her best Mother Is Talking voice. In a cheerful voice that she hoped didn't sound brittle or desperate, she asked

"Anyone for dessert?"

* * *

1 **(1) **Another of TP's "placeholder" characters, given a name, the status of teacher at the AG school, form master responsibility over Tree Frog House (day boys), and about whom not much else is known. I've fleshed him out a bit. The full list of A.G. teachers appears in the New Discworld Companion.


	16. A new approach

_**The MGC returns? C15+2 - A short chapter, but one that advances the story. **_

Johanna and her working party returned to the Guild that evening, grimy, happy, and smelling of elephants. Her nose alerted her to the fact one last thing needed to be done, and she diverted the students via the new shower block adjacent to the changing rooms for Games. She had tipped a Guild servant to ensure lots of hot water and towels were available, and made very sure they all ran through their respective showers.

She undressed and showered with her girls: she had lost the shyness and nudity taboo that had made sharing a room such an ordeal when she first arrived in Ankh-Morpork, and as she taught the girls on Wilderness Survival courses, you can be shy or you can be clean, but you cannot be both. I prefer clean.

_It's also good for them that they see I have no hang-ups or feelings of guilt or oddity about my body, _she thought_. Young girls can be neurotic about these things - I certainly was! - and it does them good to be reassured that their bodies are not unique. Besides, there may be times when an Assassin has to be naked to blend in. _Johanna frowned. She couldn't think how, not unless she were to be completing a contract in a House of Repute or a naturist colony. _And then where would you conceal the inhumation weapon? __1_**(1)****2**

Johanna also reflected that nudity was a condition often enforced on those captured by a ruthless enemy, as the first step towards breaking their resistance and to make it harder for them to escape. _Better they experience it now, in unforced circumstances. _

"When you get up to your dorms, change, end send this clothing to the laundry bag!" she requested. "End clean your boots, otherwise you are _not _going to be popular"!

After a debriefing session as to the type and location of observers Vetinari would have had watching the student assassins, she sent them off with thanks, and went to change her own clothes.

She then went to find Alice and Joan, to tell them about the discussion she had had with Vetinari concerning Davinia Bellamy.

"Ah, the elephant in the room!" Alice said, cheerfully.

"I'm sorry, I thought I'd bethed end changed clothes…"

"Not a trace, m'dear!" Joan said. "We meant the thing we very carefully weren't talking about the other time. The dear Davinia. You have news?"

Johanna related her conversation with the Patrician and Mr _{{Cough}}. _The others listened, intently. Joan punched a clenched fist into her other palm, in frustration.

"Isn't it the way!" she exclaimed. "We now know for sure it's the dratted woman, but we have nothing that stands up in court!"

She calmed herself, and smiled.

"However. I have a plan. We need to run it past the Watch and Vetinari's ghastly people, but it may be a way forward."

"We're listening" Alice prompted her.

"It's simple. Look here. She must be bursting to score another notch on her belt by now. If I was anything to go by, sooner or later, probably sooner, our Davinia will give into the urge again even if she's _trying_ to be a good little girl right now. And it occurred to me before I went to sleep last night. Ourselves, the Watch and Vetinari's people are all keeping her under surveillance. So far we've found just enough for us to be sure she's the right person, but nothing that's going to make a case in court. But maybe we're doing this backwards.

"We know that so far, three of the men she's inhumed had Guild contracts out on them. Damn cheek, I'd have fancied a pop at one or two of them myself, you can never have too much money in your retirement fund. Now that leads me to wonder. Elsewhere in this building there is a department that has a whole room full of current contracts and files on the clients. Why don't we locate, say, half a dozen really egregious clients, of the sort Davinia would take an interest in, and watch _them _instead? We're due some luck in this case, after all! And one of the things this Guild does is the _opposite_ of assassination. We bodyguard for money and we advise on security. It's a long shot, but we might just strike lucky by identifying the clients who we _know_ she would take an interest in. We discreetly watch and observe. As you know, we can do that so damn' well the client doesn't know they're being watched. Any sign of Davinia moving in to conclude a private contract, then we move in, and bang!" Joan punched her open palm again.

"We've got her. In the bag!"

"Combine this with a lower level of monitoring her home and shop…." Mused Alice, "and get more Assassins in on the observation. We might make it a field exercise for older students."

"Will Mr Wimvoe ellow us eccess to the contract files?" Johanna asked. "These things ere restricted-eccess."

"He will if Lord Downey tells him to." Joan decided.

"So we change emphasis from the suspect, to likely victims" mused Alice. "And, forgive me for being cynical, Joan, you get to look closely at the sort of clients who interest _you_, with a view to boosting your retirement fund?"

"Well, in the fullness of time, _somebody_'s got to get the contract fees!" Joan said, stoutly.

"It might be best, then, if after we've selected our six candidates to watch, we ask the Dark Council to temporarily take them off the list to prevent misunderstanding. Or we could end up chasing a colleague who's legitimately accepted the contract."

"Suspend their contracts, anyway. Downey might raise objections and he'll probably put a time limit on it. Bad for business, otherwise."

"We'll see. It might break the deadlock. When do we approach Downey?" asked Alice.

"After we've spoken to our friends at the Watch to keep them in the loop. There might be advantages here too. If a marked client sees obvious old plods like Colon and Nobbs watching him and complains to the Watch, he won't stop to think who else might be looking his way!"

* * *

"One month only." Lord Downey said, flatly. "I don't want people coming to me and complaining as to why we seem to be doing nothing to fulfil a contract they've already made a fifty per cent advance payment on. How long will it take you to identify six likely targets?"

"Two or three days, sir, if we work over the weekend." Alice said, smoothly.

"And the Watch get to know the barest details. I expressly forbid any written material from our archives being passed to them. This is business-sensitive information!"

"Of course, sir. All the Watch will know are names and addresses. Everything else is privileged information."

Downey smiled.

"You'd better get onto it, then. I don't suppose there's any way Doctor Bellamy could have her attention drawn to these individuals? To make it more likely she'll target one or more of them?"

Joan shook her head.

"At the moment, my Lord, there isn't a way we can think of that won't look to her as if we're planting it. The last thing we want is for her to get suspicious."

"If you do come up with a scheme for that, advise me first."

"Very good, sir" Alice and Joan said, with surprising submissiveness.

Dismissed, the ladies went to work.

* * *

**(1) **As mentioned in a previous footnote, the Guild would, a few years later, have a Visiting Lecturer In Agatean Culture and Ninjitsu Studies, who would have eye-watering ideas in this regard. Samurai expert Steven Turnbull relates how a lady Ninja in old Japan would routinely conceal a dagger of last resort in a _very _intimate place. **(2)**

**(2) **In a suitably formed sheath, obviously.

2


	17. Applying pressure

_**The MGC returns? C15+3**_

Saturday morning, in accordance with the best sort of schools anywhere, was a working classroom day at the Assassins' Guild School. This was necessary with so much ground to cover and so many classes to deliver. However, pupils were accorded the privilege of a half day off, and after lunch the teaching staff had time to themselves, usually to catch up with marking and lesson planning.

However, at the express order of Lord Downey, three of the teachers found themselves in the Contracts Office, looking for clients who met a very strict set of criteria.

Normally, files on prospective clients and contractees were released to Assassins on a strict "need to know" basis, normally only one at a time and then only to the Guild member expressing an interest in completing the contract. Open access to all files was unprecedented, and had been granted by Downey and the Dark Council to Joan Sanderson-Reeves, Alice Band and Johanna Smith-Rhodes. Even then, the Guild's Bursar, Mr Wimvoe, and a couple of selected minions, were in attendance and were fetching files to the ante-room where the three women sat: as with those prestigious libraries holding lots of rare books, they were not allowed to go to the shelves and select for themselves.

The selection criteria were simple.

The client had to be male;

The client had to be permanently resident in Ankh-Morpork;

They had to have a history of notoriously and shamelessly abusing wives or children;

Joan's reasoning was that as the serial killer known as the New Marriage Guidance Counsellor had, in the past, inadvertently killed men who already had Assassins' Guild contracts out on them, it made sense to look for others on the current contract list who were, in theory at least, candidates for the attention of the killer. As Joan also pointed out, the killer was strongly rumoured to charge over six thousand dollars for an inhumation, which is not small money, especially without Guild tax. People capable of antagonising people who could afford to pay that much are also able to afford Assassins' Guild fees – they certainly fell into the social and income bracket that attracted the attention of the Guild.

The plan was to work out a shortlist of candidates who could be seen as bait in a trap – the formal Assassins' Guild contract would be held in abeyance for a month, while resources were devoted to discreetly watching and observing.

Joan agreed the plan, at most, had a fifty percent chance of success: only a limited number of targets could be subjected to intense covert surveillance of the sort that would eat Guild and Watch resources, and there was no guarantee she, the suspected killer, would go after _any_ of them. But the investigation in its current form was stalling, and it required some sort of reinvigoration.

Angua von Überwald and Inspecter André Loudweather of the Watch had been approached for assistance, and word had come back that Commander Vimes had given his approval, although he apparently wasn't too pleased about it. According to Angua, there were large dents in the office wall that hadn't been there yesterday. But she'd made the valuable observation that the method of killing had at least been constant: poisonous flowers or plants had been delivered to the client at his home or workplace, which cut down the number of places to watch. If he were to get himself killed in the street in a wholly unrelated attack – and here Angua shrugged – that was just bad luck. The resources available could only go so far.

With Watch backing, the women set about assembling their shortlist.

"How about this one?" Joan asked.

"The right honourable Gilbert Proctolo. Age forty-seven, married, two children. Resides on Moon Pond Lane. Upmarket Ankh, I see. The file notes in a very small paragraph following on from details of the sort of financial misdealing that led a disgusted associate to buy the contract, that he frequently gets drunk at home and takes it out on his wife and sons. She is frequently in Accident and Emergency at the Lady Sybil trying to pass the latest injury off as a far-fetched domestic accident"

"Sounds promising. Put him on the list" said Alice.

They read on in silence for a while. Then Alice tutted.

"Mr Martin Sendovolo. Forty-nine. Also resident in Moon Pond Lane. Is it something they put in the water? Fifty, socialite living on a trust fund, no job. Has made himself a nuisance by presuming a family link to the Venturis and has tried to get legal recognition as a Venturi heir. Apparently there may be some basis of truth, as the notes here are drawn from a copy of the family tree thought lost in the fire at the College of Heralds – that's _sneaky_, we keep copies in the Black Library? No doubt to be brought out to embarrass Sam Vimes when the time is right.

"He may have been a wrong-side-of-the-blanket child the old lord Venturi fathered on a girl with just enough nobility in her to make her a bloody nuisance. Hence the trust fund, to keep it quiet. But he isn't. Hence the contract. A disappointed man with exaggerated expectations and no achievements. Gets drunk, beats up wife. I wonder if she and Mrs Proctolo sit together in the hospital waiting room?"

"Put him on the list" Joan said. "How much is he worth, by the way? _That_ much? "

She made a discreet note. Alice and Johanna smiled.

They read on. From time to time a new name was added to the shortlist. At Mr Wimvoe's insistence, they were only able to copy over the most minimal details of name, address, description and family members. But all Assassins are taught to have good memories, and teachers tend to be born with them.

"Mr Gerald Langworthy-Eccles" Alice read. Fifty-one. Married. Four children. Social climber and business entrepreneur. Is thought to be legitimising after making an unattributable fortune in _unspecified transactions_. He is now trying to buy favour in the upper classes by hosting lavish balls and parties. Has petitioned Vetinari, without success, for a title in recognition of Services to Business. The established nobility attend the parties but laugh at him behind his back. Treated with affable contempt, as a source of entertainment. Can get embittered. Care to guess who the punchbag is when he gets on a downer?"

Johanna frowned. "The name rings a bell. I remember he wes et en Embessy reception. Trying to expend his business into Howondaland. My oncle treated him coolly. But there's something else. Something recent."

She turned and called

"Mr Wimvoe? I believe your office takes copies of the Times every day? Mey I see the last week's?"

The newspapers were provided. To speed things along, they took two or three each, searching for the name Langworthy-Eccles.

"Ah, here it is, girls! From two days ago. Listen.

"_Last night, the City Watch were called to a disturbance at a private house on Speedwell Lane"_

"Where's thet?" Johanna inquired.

Just off Kingsway on the Hide Park side. Not quite the most upscale part of Ankh, but it attracts people who aspire to moving up to Scoone Avenue. Quite telling, for the man."

"_Details are scanty, but the premises are believed to belong to the entrepreneur and free-market advocate Gerald Langworthy -Eccles (51). Following a society party, Mr Langworthy-Eccles is believed to have had a loud and noisy altercation with his wife. A Watch patrol was attracted by the sound of a female screaming in fear and pain, and the householder then had a noisy altercation with the Watch patrol, refusing them admission to the house and screaming that the Watch had no right to interfere in domestic disputes. _

_It is believed the Constable Precious Jolson (22) forced admission to the premises anyway, and discovered Mrs Langworthy-Eccles (46) in a state of some distress. She was later admitted to the Lady Sybil Free Hospital where her injuries were attended to. She would not talk to the Times, claiming her wounds were the result of a freak accident involving a door. While Doctor John Lawn (58) reminded us it is hospital policy not to break patient confidentiality, he did admit that it would have to be an oddly-shaped door to inflict injuries like that. _

_Mr Langworthy-Eccles attempted to make a personal complaint to Commander Vimes of the Watch, who personally attended to back up his officers despite being off-duty. Dressed in a rather fetching pink dressing-gown and blue fluffy-bunny slippers, Sir Samuel pointed out to Mr Langworthy-Eccles that he could hear the bloody screaming from across the road on the corner of Scoone Avenue where he happened to live, and that this was not the first time we've been woken up in the night like this, Gerald, and certainly not the first time your wife has presented at the Lady Sybil with suspicious bruising. If you want to complain, put it in writing and address it to the Palace and I'll see you in front of Lord Vetinari, are you hearing me, Gerald? Oh, and Constable Jolson patrols here tomorrow night, __**and**__ the night after, and I'm pairing her with either Sergeant Angua or Constable von Humpedink, who both have a fairly robust attitude towards so-called domestics. _

_Sir Samuel concluded with "Any more noise from you tonight and you're in a cell, OK?". Then h3e congratulated his officers on a job well done and went home. _

"Report by Sacharissa Cripslock" Joan concluded.

"How could we not tell?" mused Alice. The Times' leading investigative reporter was well known for being a Woman of Views, and one of her strongly-held views was that any man caught in domestic abuse should be buried at the bottom of a hole that was so deep he'd be hearing elephants.

They paused in silence.

"Joan" Alice said, "Do you remember Downey asked us if we had any plans to try to guide Dr Bellamy towards suitable candidates? And we said that anything we could think of sounded too much like planting evidence and she'd smell it a mile off? Well… she reads the Times, doesn't she?"

"And we didn't even need to plant this!" Joan said, exultantly. "If she hasn't put a socking great red ring around this article and clipped it out for future reference, she's not the woman I thought she was! And I can think of one other little thing we can do to help things along…"

"Lord Downey said to talk to him first" Johanna reminded her.

"Oh, we _will_" Joan said. How many's that now, girls? Nine? Let's just discuss them and whittle it down to six, and the job's done. Then we start thinking of surveillance. What's that clever little girl of yours doing, Johanna, the one you used to get into the Embassy and the florists? Round her up for me later, would you? And a couple more promising students. I've got a job for them!"

They packed up and finished, adding the Times article to the Langworthy-Eccles file, thanked Mr Wimvoe for his help, and went to discuss strategy over coffee.

* * *

There comes a moment in every criminal investigation where luck throws an easy ball towards the law enforcement bat. This had been a long time coming, but over a leisured Saturday breakfast made by her husband, Doctor Davinia Bellamy took the opportunity to catch up with the newspapers she'd only had time to skim during the week.

The frustration and sheer itch of not having been able to conclude a _deadheading _for some time was building up inside her. She knew herself well: she knew it would only be a matter of time. The only questions were _who_ and _when_. She took another sip of her coffee and turned a page. And read.

_Unseemly fracas at Mansion on Speedwell Road. Watch called._

Her coffee grew colder as she read. She smiled appreciatively at the description of Sam Vimes, an off-duty copper who'd evidently reached for the nearest dressing gown and slippers – even if they were Sybil's – before racing out to a crime happening practically across the street from him.

_But that's Vimes. He runs to the scene of a crime regardless and he doesn't let go._

She filed the name of Mr Gerald Langworthy-Eccles for future attention. Her mind started making plans. Did they already have an account with her? It might be in the name of the senior housemaid or housekeeper. She'd have to check. But perhaps a speculative approach? Make contact with an offer to cater their floristry needs for these parties he has, Find a sympathetic downstairs maid who wants to let off steam about the bastard she works for and how he treats the mistress… or check out he family connections. Check if any friends or acquaintances are among my satisfied and discreet customers. Get them to drop a very discreet hint to the poor woman that these things can be resolved…

"Your coffee's going cold, Vinnie" Peter reminded her.

"Oh. So it is. Thank you." she said.

* * *

"So we're resolved on a plan, then?" André Loudweather inquired. "The Watch and the Palace deploy gargoyle resources at each of these six addresses, one as near to the front door, one as near to the tradesmen's entrance, as they can get. The gargoyles are shown iconographs of the woman we're looking for. So if she calls bearing flowers, and the gentleman of the house dies suddenly and inexplicably shortly afterwards, we've got her. In the meantime, Assassins' Guild resources are deployed, partly to exert psychological pressure on her in Pelicool Steps to scare her into making an error, and partly on deep penetration and covert surveillance missions on each of the six potential targets. Which the Guild may legitimately do, as all six are subject to Guild contract."

Agreement was nodded and murmured. André smiled.

"Good. I like the shape of this Mr Gerald Langworthy-Eccles. I agree that as his case featured in the times, it might give the lady ideas. Therefore we devote a proportionately larger share of our resources to his case. Everyone agreed? Good. Let's put the fine details together."

* * *

Some time later, André and Joan went for a walk from the Assassins' Guild around to Phelan's Well.

They nodded at each other, and entered the premises of Liona Keeble, Job Broker. Keeble, tall, thin, and slightly fey in his manner, nodded recognition to André as the ill-assorted pair passed through the boards, displaying job vacancies according to type and location.

"André!" Keeble called. "Always a pleasure! See you at the Club later?" His eyes took in Joan, in her Assassin black, and he instinctively realised she was not a woman to offend.

"We need a word, Liona." André nodded to the private office. Keeble nodded understanding, and asked his receptionist to prepare drinks. They went through together, and sat down.

Joan was introduced, and Keeble's face went carefully blank.

"I'm going to offer you the chance to help the Watch in its enquiries" André said, pleasantly. "We're about to launch a big undercover investigation. My colleague here is an investigator with the Assassins' Guild, by the way. Did I tell you it was a _joint_ investigation?"

"And.. I can help, how, exactly?" Keeble said, cautiously.

"We can't use Watchmen or women. Apart from a few Cable Street Particulars, who are all needed on other investigations anyway, their faces and shapes are all too well known. I want to send vanilla people, new unknown faces, into various big houses undercover, in the guise of waiters, waitresses and domestic servants. I know you handle temporary as-and-when contracts, say somebody's catering for a house weekend or a big ball and extra below-stairs staff are needed. Well, Miss Sanderson-Reeves here is going to bring you a dozen or so temporary staff to be deployed in locations I will direct you to employ them in."

Joan nodded, and smiled encouragingly.

"They will need their records with you to be, er, _slightly falsified_, in case anyone checks. I want, for instance, no mention of the fact they all come from the Assassins' Guild School. They will all be perceived as having attended obscure and unknown schools and colleges either here or preferably overseas. Don't panic, they all know how to take instructions and knuckle down to hard work."

Joan added "You will, of course, pay them appropriately, as every school student welcomes pocket money. And the ones I'm sending you are all from places like Dimwell and the Shades. Scholarship pupils, d'you see. When people think of the Assassins' School, they think of cut-glass accents, children of the nobility, and double-barrelled names. If I send any of _those _out posing as downstairs maids and footmen, they'd be noticed. Dimwell kids won't. They won't get a second glance. And the others will be from overseas. You'll be getting one from Fourecks, for instance, and a very bright girl from Howondaland. Your job is to give them convincing paperwork and send 'em out to work."

As Keeble sagged slightly, André added "They're all fourteen and fifteen. Some of the boys will be older. And you know yourself, Liona, if they weren't in school at fourteen, they'd be working."

Keeble sighed. "This could ruin my reputation, you know. What if it goes wrong?"

"It won't. Trust me on this. And the Guild doesn't forget. It's a useful friend to make. Better than the alternative." Joan added.

"Ok, I'll do it" Keeble said, resignedly, spreading his hands in a classic shrug. Then he recovered, and asked

"See you down the club tonight? It's been a long time, no see!"

Joan, who in some respects was very tolerant, caught the reference to the Blue Cat Club (Ankh-Morpork's gay scene – all of it, in fact) and smiled, knowing another kind of force was at work here.

"_Such_ a nice boy!" she exclaimed, indulgently.

* * *

On Pelicool Steps, Johanna Smith-Rhodes, dressed in her usual almost-military safari suit, with a bush hat to match, promenaded unhurriedly in the company of Emmanuelle Marie Lapoignard les Deux-Épées. While Johanna's clothing made a token nod towards Assassin status – her hat was black, her epaulettes were trimmed with black piping and she wore the purple teaching sash, as well as being festooned with obvious weapons – the dominant colour was veldt khaki. It was a style eccentricity the Guild tolerated in one of its young rising stars.1 **(1) **To an outside observer however, her clothing was White Howondaland with all the knobs turned up to eleven**(2) **2.

Emmanuelle, by contrast, was wearing the full elegant black, in silk and satin, with just a teasing hint of décolletage. Her sword and dagger hung at her side as a gentle hint to people not to come too close unless invited.

As instructed, as they passed Bellamy's, the two very obvious Assassins gave the establishment a careful, almost disinterested, glance before walking on in the direction of the Brindisian restaurant, where two old friends in the same profession had booked to have lunch.

Inside the shop, Davinia Bellamy watched them walk past her window and quailed inside. She instantly recognised the redhead who was very clearly Howondalandian by her dress. She had never seen the dark-haired one before, but something in her poise, her elegance, her carriage, shouted "I am a killer! Do not cross me!" at the world. And those _swords_ she wore at her waist…

Davinia could not help but go back to this time and again during the afternoon… the sight had unsettled her, badly. It kept intruding on her thoughts concerning deadheading Mr Gerald Langworthy-Eccles.

* * *

**(1) **Provided she wore the approved black if she was concluding a contract. Well, you can't have Assassins dressing how the hell they like for work, there has to be a dress code.

**(2) **Anyone trying to tell Johanna this risked a short educational encounter with her bush machete or her _sjaembok. _She wasn't short tempered or trying to make a point – for much the same reason it wouldn't have occurred to Crocodile Dundee to dress up appropriately for New York. But she was still proud of her country and origins.


	18. Lady Damietta asks for help

_**The MGC returns? C15+4**_

Mr Gerald Langworthy-Eccles, a large, self-satisfied man, with a classic bay window stomach straining underneath a dress shirt and cummerbund, stood in the doorway of his home on Speedwell Lane, welcoming the guests. Long since run to fat, a certain way of standing and moving indicated to the professional observer that there had once been a lot of muscle where there was now flab. But he still radiated the aura of a large, powerful, man, albeit one who was out of his comfort zone in trying to make those final, agonisingly elusive, steps from the upper middle classes into the upper classes proper.

It's comparatively easy to move up the social ladder if your beginning point is the bottom and he only way is up. The rungs are spaced comparatively closely and there are a surprising number of them in the working classes. Cockbill Street is a more desirable address than Elm Street, for instance; and Elm Street is several rungs above the ironically named Paradise Street in the depths of the Shades. And Shamlegger Street would need the ladder to have negative rungs.

As you move into the middle classes, the rungs begin to space themselves out further and wider and it requires more time, money, investment and often just sheer fluke luck to move between them. It has rightly been said that the upper middle classes , the ones engaged in making the money _here_ and _now_ in _this_ generation, are the most insecure and socially unstable, simply because of the fear of losing it all and sliding painfully down an assemblage of broken rungs. And when money and material comfort are assured, at least for today, an uncertainty about _status_ takes over. The lower classes may have crab-bucket syndrome, an unconscious malicious desire to prevent others ascending to heights they have written themselves off from even aspiring to.

To move from the middle to the upper classes is like crossing an abyss. It can be likened to deep-sea diving – the deeper you go, to the depths where the really nasty monsters lurk, the more the waters press and crush and every extra yard in depth feels like a mile. It brings on what divers call the bends. Or it's mountain-climbing without oxygen: the higher you go, the more painful and unsure it becomes. This brings on the dissociative and hallucinatory disease called altitude sickness. It is possible to aspire to climb too high.**(1)**

And the established upper classes, that is, the people living on money gained by previous generations, (as Mr Gerald Langworthy-Eccles has discovered), do not like newcomers. Collectively, they have retreated into the high castle and pulled the drawbridge up behind them. Making that final step, in to the not-just-wealthy-but-also-noble, means that to climb those final rungs of the social ladder, the aspirant must wear seven-league-boots to get between rungs.

And any wizard can tell you about the stresses involved in placing your left foot twenty-one miles in front of your right foot. The only way around it is to tread very, very, lightly. But for people fixated and obsessed with social climbing, treading lightly is a thing they find impossible to do… .

Mrs Damietta Langworthy-Eccles stood small and pale in the lee of her husband. She was wearing a lot of make-up and felt over-dressed. Every nerve in her body sang with tension, and really, really, prayed that nothing would set him off tonight, some real or perceived slight on the part of one of the great Lords who were happy to descend on him for free food, drink and entertainment, but who ridiculed him behind his back and condescended to his face. She wished he could just be happy with what he'd achieved and where they were. It was more than most people born in Seven Sleepers ever achieved. And that one, final, step into the nobility obsessed him. It was tantalisingly close but she feared would remain out of his reach.

Her jaw throbbed dully as she stood, welcoming the guests. Dr Lawn thought he might have broken a tooth and had recommended a good dentist "not a tooth-butcher, one who knows what he's doing".

And the little voice in the back of her mind that said _Why protect him? Why defend him? Why excuse him? It was over the first moment he set a hand on you, in his frustration and rage._

However often she tried to fight that voice down, it came back stronger. To distract herself, she looked around her at the bustle of a busy household.

_At least those temporary staff Keeble's found for us have been absolute wonders. Hard workers all of them. It can't be fun having to go out to work at fourteen. Thank the Gods I escaped that. _

* * *

Some days earlier, fourteen hand-picked senior students had been gathered in a conference room at the Assassins' Guild. Composed of seven of the best senior girls of fourteen and fifteen, and seven older boys undergoing various stages of the Black Syllabus, they sat down together and wondered why they had been selected and what for.

Then Lord Downey, Joan Sanderson-Reeves, Alice and Johanna had walked in.

"Thank you for attending" he said, briskly. "As you know, it is rare, but not unknown, for a student to be asked to assist in a contract operation involving full Assassins. Miss N'Kweze here has already participated in one such mission…"

All eyes turned to regard Ruth, who sat serenely, inwardly feeling pleasure and pride at having been asked again.

"..in which she performed admirably and exceeded all expectations. This is the reason why she has been asked again. The rest of you now have a chance to begin building similar solid working records, that will stand you in good stead in later life after qualification."

Downey allowed this to sink in, and continued:

"The _absolute_ precondition for your participation in this mission is discretion. Anything you are about to hear in this room must be left in this room. You are not to discuss it with _anyone_ except the members of staff here present. If you think you are not able to refrain from gossip, nor fend off the interested questions of your peers who will be wondering why you are all here, then you are free to leave the room now, and no blame will be attached."

There was silence. Nobody got up or asked to be excluded.

Downey nodded.

"The Guild is putting a great deal of trust in you," he said. "But you have all been selected as outstanding students who have shown great promise, and who in the opinions of your teachers may be safely entrusted with greater responsibility. I believe, based on my knowledge of you all, that you will live up to that trust. Now I will invite Miss Sanderson-Reeves to explain more about what you will be called upon to do. On behalf of the Dark Council, I thank you."

Joan stepped forward.

Reinforcing Downey's words about secrecy, she explained about the Marriage Guidance Counsellor investigation, emphasised she was a little bit peeved the wretched woman has taken my old working name (this raised a laugh) and explained to the students their assistance would be needed in undercover covert surveillance missions over the coming month.

"Miss N'Kweze, you've met her face to face. The rest of you haven't. Well, you are now going to view iconographs of the woman you will be alert for."

She nodded, and Johanna started projecting slides.

"Study, and remember, this face. This is important."

Discreetly-taken iconographs of Davinia Bellamy began to appear on screen.

"This is how she normally appears" Joan said, quietly. We have reason to suspect that for some of her inhumations, she has been wearing wigs or otherwise disguising her appearances. These are copies of iconographs which have been adapted by our art department, showing how the target might look if disguised."

Pictures of Davinia as a brunette, a redhead and dark flashed across the screen.

"We have identified six possible victims from existing contracts held at the Guild. These are men who fit the critieria for the attention of this lady. If nothing else, the wives are all capable of meeting her completion fees, just as the clients move in social and business circles where they encounter people who are most able to pay Guild fees. But to avoid any confusion, the contracts from the Guild will be under suspension for the period of this investigation, as we have no wish to impede our own colleagues."

Alice took the floor.

"This is why, during the coming spring school break, you will all be going into one or other of those houses as temporary domestic staff, to watch and observe. Is anyone dismayed yet? Good! Any questions?"

"Why us, miss?"

The inevitable question. Alice smiled.

"Because the majority of you are Scholarship pupils and we believe you will be able to carry off the essential deception so much easier. To the people you will be working for, you will be ignored as just another maid or waiter from Dimwell or Dolly Sisters or the Shades. We could not have used a Selachii or a Venturi or a Rust on this task. They would not have been able to act in a servile enough manner, as their upbringing has conditioned them to be the people who are waited upon, rather than doing the waiting. It is more likely that some socially upscale guests would have recognised them and demanded to know why they were slumming it among the servant classes. You do not present these concerns."

Alice briefed them on the job. They would go in under their own names, but were expected to familiarise themselves with the fake life histories provided for them that would be recorded at Keeble's job shop, in case of inquiries. These would only be falsified in a few crucial respects, ie "safe addresses" would be provided in their home districts which would belong to friends of the Guild who would be briefed to support the stories. She did not think this would be very likely, but they were covering all eventualities. Details of education would of course be changed. They would then be allocated jobs according to current availability from Keeble's, so that at least two people would be covering each suspect home at all times. They would not be live-in staff, but day employees with their homes elsewhere in the City. On leaving for work in the morning and returning, care would be taken to watch for anyone tailing them. You have all done the relevant course modules, and some of you have already had practical tests, and know the signs about living and working undercover.

Alice answered another raised hand.

"Please, miss. As you said we were all brought up in places like the Shades and Lobsneaks. But so were a lot of people we all know as friends and neighbours. What happens if we go undercover as a waitress or an underfootman, and we meet somebody we grew up with in Lobsneaks who knows us and knows we're a pupil at the Assassins' School?"

Joan took the question.

"In that case, the best defence is the truth. But as you're not a complete bloody idiot, or we would not be using you, you will not tell the _whole_ truth, will you, miss Higgins? In those circumstances, yes, admit to being a pupil at this school. But point out you are a Scholarship pupil. You need to get some money in from _somewhere_, if only to meet the costs of personalised equipment."**(2)**

"You also need personal money to catch up with your more financially fortunate contemporaries."

The students in the room all nodded, wryly

"So you then come clean, tell them you're working illicitly as the Guild does not approve of this in its students, you need the money, please don't give me away. Appeal to their sympathy – you're at heart a Lobsneaks kid needing to make a honest dollar too. Should work!"

"And you will be paid, at standard rates, by Keeble. We have made sure of that and negotiated on your behalf, so work damned hard and do _not _give the client cause for complaint!"

Joan nodded to Alice, who repeated a list of do's and don't's.

_You work hard and work as directed. The world is going to see nothing but serving staff and trainee waiters and waitresses. _

_Above all, you remain alert for deliveries of flowers. You time and date these. Where possible, you check the identity of the person delivering flowers. If it corresponds with Davinia Bellamy, alert the Guild at once._

_While the client in all cases is a contracted case for inhumation, on no account seek to conclude the inhumation yourself. I know two of you are only a short time away from doing the Final Run, but you are all still students and therefore ineligible to conclude contracts. Look upon it, for the moment, as a bodyguarding contract where you are expected to assess risk and save the client from death. In fact you are saving him from an unlicenced killer, for the attentions of a fee-earning licenced Assassin later. _

Lord Downey intervened at this point and said, helpfully

"Do you know, it occurs to me that while you are in a situation of, ah, deep penetration, observing clients the Guild has an interest in, your time might also fruitfully be occupied in covertly assessing the premises and the daily routine, so that you may write a report afterwards which may be attached to the relevant contract file, so as to guide the Guild operative who eventually concludes the inhumation. You have all been taught how to prepare such a report, after all. I will add a personal note suggesting the Assassin who eventually takes the case shows generosity, when thanking you for your assistance."

"They could pay off your personal equipment loan balances, perhaps" Joan said, thoughtfully. "So you graduate with the same clean slate as any Venturi or Selachii. Makes sense!""

* * *

And now it was the following Saturday night and a dinner-ball was beginning at the Langworthy-Eccles home on Speedwell Lane. This was a socially select address on the Rimwards side of Kingsway, one where the houses were less grand and the gardens a little less spacious than at neighbouring Scoone Avenue on the Hubwards side of Kingsway. It marked, in fact, the space separating two of those final rungs on the ladder of social ascendancy.

But an entrepreneur and would be commerce-magnate like Gerald Langworthy-Eccles drew great crowds to his little soirées. At least one of the great Lords was bound to be present, to eat and drink the finest at somebody else's expense. Tonight it was the choleric Lord Venturi. Senior Guild dignitaries were present. Langworthy-Eccles noted the presence of Mr Boggis of the Thieves' Guild and Mrs Boggis. He'd never been able to attract Lord Downey of the Assassins, who'd always slipped out pleading previous commitments. Instead, a couple of teachers from the Guild School were circulating: that sultry Quirmian woman who always made him feel steamy and in need of a _real _woman. Where was that wife of his, anyway? Never mind: that damn' Quirmian attracted a crowd, usually male, all of her own. And that Miss Band, long and slender, a dam' fine looking piece in her own right, but rumours you wouldn't dare say to her face suggested she made exactly the opposite sort of arrangements. He recalled a _private display _he'd paid to witness once at the Seamstresses' Guild, and a laviscious smile spread across his face. His tongue licked his lips in an oddly reptilian way as he tried to visualise Miss Band and the Quirmian woman together.

Shaking the pleasant thought out of his head, he carried on taking stock. Who was that just arriving…. _Could it be?_

He ran to the door.

."Welcome to my home, My Lord!"

Havelock Vetinari, Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, nodded acknowledgement to his host. His two escorting Derk Clerks moved in closer.

"And your gentlemen are?"

"Mr Brown" said one.

"Me {{Cough}}" said the other. "I regret his lordship has a poorly throat at the moment and is capable of not a great deal of speech. However, he was desirous of seeing one of your evenings for himself."

Vetinari again nodded.

"I'm sorry to hear that, my Lord. A soothing drink can be provided?"

The Patrician nodded assent, and his party moved on

Fingers were clicked and commands made, and a young maid emerged from backstairs with a tray. She curtsied appropriately, and Mr Brown smelt the drink

"A standards soothing preparation for a strained throat, my lord" he said. "I detect honey, lemon juice and perhaps a single serving of tonic wine."

"Rather have a bleedin' double!" the Patrician muttered. Mr _{{Cough}}_ leant forward to him and whispered something urgent in his ear.

"Whoops, sorry!" the Patrician said. He took a sip, and appeared to get into character.

"Thank you, young lady."

The maid, whose name was Sharon Higgins and who was normally one of Joan's scholarship form at the Guild School, said

"Think nothing of it, my lord!"

"What's your name?"

"Sharon, m'lord!"

"Lovely name, lovely. Thank you, Sharon!"

She dipped again, then returned back stairs. A gaggle of not-yet-needed waiting staff were clustered in the kitchen. A motherly-looking cook took the tray back from Sharon and frowned, looking at her hard.

"Is it _really_ him out there, luv?" she asked, curiously. "Vetinari's always refused the invitation before!"

The cook looked again, and frowned hard.

"You know, you really _do_ look like that Sharon Higgins from Dimwell. The one with nobby ideas who went and signed on at that posh Assassins' School."

Sharon looked from one side to the other and feigned distress.

"I am that Sharon Higgins from Dimwell." she said, in a low worried voice. "But please don't give me away. It ain't no fun at that school when you don't have no dollars! And _they_ don't like you taking on side jobs to earn a crust, _they _think it's demeaning and brings the school into disrepute. And I _need_ a few dollars. Please?"

The cook softened, hearing and responding to the universal plea for the working classes to stand together against _them_, who made all the unreasonable demands and kept you down.

"Don't worry, luv" she said, in a loud voice. "I must have been mistaken, Sharon is a popular name round these parts, nobody with a common name like _that_ goes to _that _school!"

Sharon smiled She leant up, and in a low voice against the hubbub of the kitchen said

"Favour for a favour? That ain't Vetinari out there We know he keeps an identical body-double called Charlie for jobs like this that he doesn't want to do himself. Charlie is a complete ringer except for two things. He can't do the voice and left to himself he'll get blind drunk. Just watch him!"

The cook grinned.

"Is that _so_?" the cook said. "Well, it'll fool the Master."

Her smile said that a fooled Master would be no bad thing, and Sharon moved on, knowing the secret was safe. She could think of a couple more nuggets of gossip and low-level rumours circulating the Guild that people outside never got to hear, and trade those against her continued anonymity.

And so the evening went on. Langworthy-Eccles wondered why Harry King, a man normally so eager to attend society balls, had never attended any of _his_ functions. What did King _know_? What did he have on him? He shuddered, and put the thought as far out of his mind as he could. At least, against all hope, the Patrician was here…

* * *

Ruth N'Kweze and Darleen O'Hagan had been sent down to the cellars to pick up a bucket of ice. They were on the way back up with it when they were blocked on the stairs by three or four of the other temporary waiting staff, boys and girls of about their age. They had a definite backstreets-of-Morpork flavour to them.

Sensing trouble, Ruth and Darleen settled the ice-bucket and adopted subtly different positions allowing them to fight, if necessary. They made eye-contact with the one who appeared to be the leader, a tough-looking youth of about sixteen.

"Who the hells are you?" he demanded. "You're not ordinary kids, wherever you're from. And there are a few of you here tonight!"

"The name's Darleen O'Hagan" came the reply "From Worralorrasurfa by way of Bugarup and a fast tramp boat taking me to the big city . I'm from Fourecks and there are a hell of a lot of us in this city, cobber!"

Ruth scrutinised the threat. Why should they have been approached inside the building by people they were working alongside, and not by the permanent staff of the house… those people confronting them had an air about them, a way of carrying themselves, that was like looking into a slightly distorted fairground mirror… they seem to think we're getting in their way..

Then she had it.

"Wait." she said, raising an empty right hand in a gesture of peace. "You're from lower Broadway. The Old Courthouse. Yes?"

"What's that to you, you bloody stuck up Assassin?" one of her assailants demanded, hotly.

Darleen burst out laughing. "Stuck up? Me?" and in as many words added they should go and perform an intimate act on a wombat.

Ruth carefully turned back the lapel of her maid's outfit and revealed an Assassins' Guild badge. The four people opposite her relaxed, but didn't quite drop the fighting positions.

"OK" said the leader "We're Thieves' Guild school."

"So we're all here to case the joint, as it were?" Ruth inquired. The thief smiled sheepishly and offered a hand. Ruth took it.

"You know the Flannelfoot accord. " Ruth pressed. "In the event of Thieves and Assassins meeting on business.

"_You rob 'em. We kill 'em_." she quoted.

The head Thief nodded.

"So as long as we're both aware the others are here…"

"Then there won't be room for disagreement" finished Ruth.

"And you're not unlicenced Thieves. That was the other possibility."

The two groups parted as working colleagues who understood each other, Ruth reflecting that Langworthy-Eccles was certainly accumulating a lot of enemies.

* * *

Meanwhile, Alice and Emmanuelle were circulating, knowing they had a legitimate right by invitation to be there, enjoying the party, and making observations of their own. Periodically, one of the young servants they had planted would come up and refresh their drinks; they would exchange a brief message in the standard ginger-code, and move on. Emmanuelle was the centre of a flurry of male attention; Alice didn't begrudge her this, knowing the other woman was enough of a pro Assassin to drop the pose and do what was needed if and when necessary. This left Alice, the more retiring and less favoured of the two lady Assassins, to move more inconspicuously in the background, to look, assess, ask discreet questions, and find things out.

She had already discovered the flowers were not provided by Bellamy's of Pelicool, which disappointed her slightly. But things could change.

Things changed with a discreet message from Sharon Higgins.

_Thieves Guild active in building. Operatives RN and DO forced to break cover. So far only Thieves aware._

Alice walked the length of the ballroom, found Mr Boggis, and exchanged professional courtesies, Alice following it up with a "I would like a word, if you please. Somewhere discreet?"

It had developed into the next dance, the short and portly Boggis barely coming up to Alices's…

_Ugh, ugh, ugh, _she thought, wishing she could flout convention and dance with a woman. Or that Boggis were six inches taller. Or she not five foot ten.

"I hear we've both got undercover people in this building right now" Alice said, pleasantly as she could muster. "And I _am_ speaking for lord Downey here."

"Yes.." said Boggis. "Langworthy-Eccles's overdue a raid."

"It's in both our best interests if our respective people are not exposed. Yes? "

"Agreed" Boggis said, somewhat muffled.

"_He can steal a look_ she thought. _He is head of the Thieves' Guild. But just __**dare**__ he enjoy it too much._

"And you can work out we have a contract out on these premises. Again, Mr Boggis, please treat that as privileged information."

"Agreed!" said Boggis, who was somewhat entranced by his proximity to her bosom. Alice was more than happy when the music ended.

She elected to sit on the Boggis table for a while and make small-talk about the relationship between the Thieves' and Assassins' Guilds. She know she could brief Lord Downey on any interesting remarks Boggis made, and Boggis knew she had Downey's ear. Besides, Mrs Boggis, normally a small, fussy, conceited little woman, was remarkably relaxed about their dance together. Mrs Boggis had guessed Alice was no threat to their marriage, and genially asked her about the Blue Cat Club, a shame it only allowed women to be, er, associate members, wasn't it?

Alice smiled, and steered the conversation round to the Boggis-Downey Cup, the newly inaugurated challenge between the edificeering teams at both Guilds. The previous year, the Thieves had won: Alice looked for great improvement this year.

And she also watched Emmanuelle, surrounded as she was by men. The principal contender appeared to be a tall, loud, burly man with… was that a _Howondalandian_ accent? She shrugged. Johanna wasn't the only one in town by any means. She wondered if she know him, but Johanna was leading a Wilderness expedition during the week's school holiday. Or she'd have been here.

Alice took a sip of her wine.

And then things started happening. Several previously unrelated phenomena all came together, in much the same way random unrelated spells do when fired by wizards.

Ruth N'Kweze was circulating with a tray of drinks. From her point of view, the evening was going nicely, and she was even picking up the occasional cash tip from people who appreciated prompt friendly service. It would all go towards paying for additional equipment, she thought. Some of the concealed weapons sheaths, like those she'd seen Miss Smith-Rhodes wearing. And then she ran into _him_ again. He was paying court to Madame Deux-Épées, but recognised her instantly.

"Well, _hello_!" roared Jakob de Beers. "I know _you_, keffir-girl!"

"What is wrong, mon brave?" she heard Madame Deux-Épées say, concernedly.

"I saw this keffir some weeks ago. _Then, _she wes the personel maid-servent to that milksop girlie with the red plaits, the one sent to me es a _bodyguard, _would you believe it, by your Guild!"

"You are referring, I believe, to my colleague Miss Smith-Rhodes. I can most assuredly say that milksop, she is not. Or she would not be a licenced Assassin."

De Beers shrugged.

"But I do not see her tonight. But I see her nigger maid."

He turned to Ruth.

"Hev you _ebsconded_, girl?" he demanded. "Run ewey from your owner? The Embessy is not far away!"

He made to grab her arm. Ruth evaded him, and he suddenly found Madame Deux-Épées standing between them. The room had gone quiet and other people were watching. Emmanuelle registered movement towards them.

"_Ecoutes, mon brave_!" she said to him. "The truth is that Johanna is leading a School expedition into the hills this week. She has no need of a maidservant in this time, and has graciously permitted Ruth here to work for other people as a casual waitress, to earn more money. This is the truth, _ne c'est pas_?"

Ruth submissively lowered her eyes.

"Yes, madame."

Emmanuelle nodded.

"_C'est bon, _everything is in accord, and you need not concern yourself any more with the maids. When perhaps tonight, you might have _me_."

She made eye contact. De Beers found himself agreeing. He could deal with the runaway nigger later.

The Duke and Duchess of Ankh, late arrivals at the ball, hove into sight. De Beers tore his eyes away from Emmanuelle and looked into the less appealing features of Sam Vimes.

"Any disturbance here?" Vimes asked, gratingly.

"You're the police chief? Then errest this nigger! She is an absconded citizen of Rimwards Howondaland!"

Vimes' eyes narrowed.

"We can sort this out now. I've heard the latest nasty trick you people use is to tattoo your servants with their identity numbers, so if any go running, you can claim them later. I won't ask the young lady to expose her arm here. But if she goes somewhere private, with say two trustworthy ladies – my wife and Madame Two-Swords here – they can witness her arm, and if there's a number there, I'll send her to your Embassy guarded by MY watchmen. If there isn't a number, she's a free woman and there's no case to answer. Is that acceptable, Mr De Beers? "

DeBeers reluctantly acceded, and Ruth left the room, accompanied by Sybil Ramkin and her teacher.

Ruth, knowing the temporary marking applied some weeks ago had since washed off, allowed herself to be led away. There was an awkward silence in the ballroom until she returned.

"Nothing, Sam." said Sybil. "And might I say I think your attitude is an absolute disgrace, young man?"

"I concur." Emmanuelle said. "Nothing on either arm. Now with ze farce over, we have a party to return to?"

Amazingly, she returned to the arms of DeBeers, who she had concluded was a handsome man, but brash, bullying and in all regards, _Boorish. _For now, she had to protect her student. It was an _obligation. _

Dancing with him, she steered him to clear view of where Alice Band was sitting, and allowed her fingertips to trace what he thought were pleasing patterns on his back.

In reality, she was finger-signing to Alice.

_I intend to get this idiot outside _she signed. _Remind Boggis that he assuredly has no Thieves' Guild insurance. Recall the night his stupidity might have killed Johanna. He requires a lesson. _

"Well, that was street theatre!" Mr Boggis said.

"I shouldn't have read that message, Miss Band, it was for you, but that oaf with your friend?"

Alice remembered that Thieves also use and read finger-sign.

She related about the night where Johanna had had to confront a Thieves' Guild party to prevent them from robbing DeBeers, and his refusal to take out theft insurance with them.

"Johanna felt bad about that, as your people were only doing their job too. But would it make amends if my friend steers him outside and you, perhaps, might want some of your people to pick up where they left off? I can assure you Mr DeBeers is under no bodyguarding contract at present. You would have a free run, and Madame Deux-Épées would not seek to defend him."

Boggis grinned a long slow grin.

"Is that _so…_"

He went of to talk to people who can run messages to people. Ten minutes or so after his return, Emmanuelle came back in, re-adjusting her clothing. She joined them.

"The threat to miss N'Kweze and the insults to our friend are suitably dealt with, I think." she said.

Some time after that there was screaming from outside. Vimes went running to see what it was about, Later, the Lady Sybil hospital had to be contacted.

"What happened to the, er, Patrician?" asked Alice.

"He took a little sickness, I think" Emmanuelle responded.

"Mainly in large glasses. The Dark Clerks accompanying him returned him to the Palace. Charlie should really learn to control ze drinking, I think. Thankfully these are still only low-level training outings for him in his new job."

Following the discovery of the unconscious, naked and beaten DeBeers in the street outside, the party concluded sooner than it might. It put a cloud on the night, that the Thieves Guild had been allowed to get so close to a private house where the Patrician had briefly visited. Damn it all, was nobody safe? Hadn't the damn man Langworthy-Eccles paid his Thieves' Guild premiums?

The damn man, his face thunderous at another soiree gone wrong, saw his guests away at the door. His wife read the signs and quailed.

Emmanuelle and Alice left by coach, but parked up on a quiet layby in Kingsway, waiting for the students to surreptitiously join them for debriefing.

* * *

Meanwhile, the temporary waiting staff, under the eye of Mr Gillespie the elderly butler, set about cleaning up, washing up and tidying down. They were allowed breaks to go in twos and threes to the remnant of the buffet and eat their fill before the food was thrown away. Finally, they were filling in timesheets for Keebles, when there was a noise of crashing, raging and screaming.

Mr Gillespie raced in the direction of the noise.

"Sir!" he called. "This is not seemly!"

Final-year student Asassins Richard Webbley and James Coogan followed on, discreetly. Dressed as footmen, they saw the old butler seeking to restrain his master's fist, the lady lying sprawled and moaning weakly on the floor.

Seeking to conceal his disgust, Richard stepped forward.

"Nobody asked for you!" Langworthy-Eccles snarled. "_Go away!"_

"Perhaps a soothing drink before retiring, sir?" Richard asked evenly, noting with distaste that the man had already had too many unsoothing drinks. He poured a large brandy, his hand smoothly adding the powder from the sachet he had taken from his pocket.

Langworthy-Eccles nodded, took the drink, and drained the glass. Then his eyes closed and he fell over. _Good. The rules say we can't kill him, but a big dose of sedative should keep him asleep for twenty hours and give his wife a break. _

"Dead drunk." Said Mr Gillespie. "Look, you two are strapping big lads. Get him upstairs and in bed, and don't say a word to anyone about this, and there'll be a bonus in it for you?"

Richard and Jim nodded and set to their burden, as Ruth and Sharon ran to the Lady, lifting her and assisting her to a chair, looking for fresh injuries, calling for compresses and hot water to help repair the damage. As they worked on her, they helped her back to consciousness, and Sharon said, after first checking for listeners:

"You don't have to suffer this, my lady. One of my aunts had a husband who beat her up. She asked people who know people and…. well, she found someone to help."

Damietta was dazed and in pain, but interested.

There's a woman who ends things. Makes widows. She does it in such a way the Watch think it's natural causes, so you're free to pick up the inheritance and the insurance afterwards. She don't come cheap, but you can pay her out of the insurance."

"Where is this woman?" Damietta asked, through bloodied lips

"Just go to Bellamy's florists on Pelicool later in the day. Ask for Davinia. She knows who can help. And really, she will. She charges around six grand a time."

"I have been there" Ruth said. "She is very good."

And later in the evening, Sharon could report that the fly was on its way to the spider….

* * *

**(1) **In popular legend, the great craftsman of ye olde days, Daedelus, had a son, Icarus. Cautioned from flying too high on the majestic wings crafted by his father, Icarus disregarded the warning, flew too near the sun, and the Sun duly melted the wax holding the wings together. Leading, as it did, to a brief argument with Gravity, unhappy that mere men were taking the piss. The truth takes two forms. At thirty-seven thousand feet, it's bloody cold. As any pilot will tell you, your wings need damn good de-icer. Icarus was in fact killed by a build-up of ice leading to wings that stayed in the air about as well as giant hailstones. The second version is that Icarus actually flew too _low,_ over the estates of an ancestor of Mustrum Ridcully, who bellowed "Tally-Ho!" and shot down that bloody damn big bird. The Ridcullies are reticent to talk about this and claim their family history doesn't go back that far.

**(2) **This was true. While the largest part of the equipment the student Assassin needed to learn from and to familiarise themselves with came from a communal stock owned by the Guild school and issued for lessons, the longer the pupil remained as a student, the more they required certain items to be bespoke and personalised. While the Guild subsidised this generously for poorer but able students, the student was still expected to meet a part of their own equipment cost. They could come to the end of their training for the Black owing over a thousand dollars to the Guild in, albeit interest-free, loans. While one good inhumation could clear this after graduating, a student proceeding to Palace employment as a Dark Clerk could end up still repaying this four or five years on. And the Guild had a direct way with defaulters…


	19. The final movement

The MGC returns? C15+5

"I really think we'll be wrapping this up soon" Joan Sanderson-Reeves remarked to her fellow investigative Assassins.

"And now, I think, we come to the tricky bit." said Alice Band, still trying to shut the image of herself having to dance with Mr Boggis of the Thieves' Guild out of her head.

"We all do have to do distasteful things for the good of the Guild, _cherie!" _Madame Emmanuelle Lapoignard les Deux-Épées reassured her.

This time they were meeting in Emmanuelle's rooms: Joan was adamant she wasn't having any of those filthy black cigarettes in her personal space, thank you very much, and Alice also felt hospitality had its limits. Alice loked around her, wondering how one small suite of rooms could simultaneously exhibit both the very best and the very worst of Quirmian style. And as for that _bed_…

Well, Emmanuelle should know about distasteful. The way she had avenged an insult against Johanna and a student called Ruth N'Kweze, neither of whom had been in a position to retaliate, had been ruthless, callous, stylish, and in the best traditions of the Guild. It had also meant a certain amount of looking up and thinking of Quirm whilst in the arms of a bastard who had nothing to commend himself, except for the fact he was good-looking and well-built, in a brutal sort of way….

"And don't look at me like that, Alice. I managed to delay him and hold his attention long enough to distract his attention from Boggis's thugs. Then when they arrived, _zut alors_, I slipped away with my personal honour only mildly tarnished."

"Hussy." Joan murmured, but with a hint of praise and admiration.

"You know me, Joan, I can huss for Quirm!"

"You do. Frequently. But the point is, from now on we can expect no co-operation from the Watch, as they will want to conclude this arrest themselves. So how do we get in there first, and ensure Davinia Bellamy is arrested by the Guild, as Lord Downey requested?"

* * *

Elsewhere in Ankh-Morpork, André Loudweather, Detective-Inspector of the Cable Street Particulars, was having a similar sort of conversation with Commander Vimes and Sergeant Angua.

"Well-founded rumour has it that Downey's collecting candidates for another of his Mature Students classes." Vimes said, rolling the cigar to the other side of his mouth as he'd seen Harry King do a thousand times. He caught it neatly as it fell out, wondering how King managed the trick of talking and smoking at the same time.

"We know he's already bagged that librarian from Pseudopolis. You know, the one with a pretty direct zero tolerance attitude towards borrowers who return books late and damaged, or use bacon rashers as bookmarks."

"It was only _one_ borrower, sir. And she _had_ been having a hard day." Angua said, in mitigation.

"Whatever" said Vimes. "It's not in my jurisdiction, anyway, so I can afford to concede him that one. And the art teacher from that girls' finishing school in Überwald. The one who lost it and suggested to a particularly annoying brat that a good way to get a point on your brush is to suck the bristles. Pity nobody warned the pupil that Ubu White is highly poisonous."

Vimes glowered at his officers.

"Anyway, the point is. Remember the last time Downey did this, a few years ago? I'm not concerned about what Alice Band did, it was a long way outside this city and she was arguably cleaning up a situation that should have been dealt with long before, if Überwald had any law worth a spit… sorry, Angua. And the Smith-Rhodes girl was fighting in a war in her own country and did what she felt she had to. But those other two took the piss. The… _Marriage Guidance Counsellor…"_

"The original one, sir" André said, helpfully.

Vimes glared at him.

"Miss Sanderson-Reeves. And the _Black Widow_, so-called. Between them, thirty-two killings, in my own bloody city. And we were so bloody near collaring both, but the bloody Assassins contrived to get in first. That _hurt_!"

Angua and André stayed diplomatically silent.

"I met the Black Widow last night, at that party at that bloody man's." Vimes said. "I didn't want to go, but Sybil insisted, she said we should look in at a neighbour's, be sociable, it was only good manners, and she felt so sorry for the wife. Up to her old tricks again, like the way we believe she _inhumed _three or four of her kills. I don't care much for the bloody idiot she mesmerised into going outside with her, but getting him into a false state of security so Boggis's thugs could work him over and damn near break every bone in his body. Her modus operandi in a nutshell!"

"Thieves' Guild business, sir." Angua reminded him "Despite frequent reminders and very strong recommendations he should do so, Mr DeBeers had refused to buy Thieves' Guild insurance. They had the right to take him for all he had. Besides, our investigations have disclosed that on his first night in the city, only the intervention of a bodyguard from the Assassins' Guild, Miss Smith-Rhodes, in fact, prevented the Thieves from, er, _doing him over good and proper_ on that occasion. Miss Smith-Rhodes was put under personal danger and threat to her life, and quite understandably wasn't pleased about it, and it caused a minor breakdown in working relations between the Assassins and the Thieves. I believe Miss Band and Madame Deux-Épées used last night as an opportunity to restore good working relations between the Guilds, as well as to take revenge on Mr DeBeers for endangering their friend. I also understand mr DeBeers had been verbally provocative to the Thieves on the prior occasion, and they used the opportunity last night to advise him that politeness costs nothing. Sir."

"He makes friends easily, doesn't he? And that business with the black girl, when he demanded I arrest her and return her to the Embassy as an illegal emigrant. If there's one thing I hate, it's people telling me my job. Thankfully, Sybil gave me the excuse I needed to dismiss it and let the girl go."

Vimes nodded.

"The deBeers case. We'll call it _attempted suicide _and close the book. I'll brief Ambassador van der Graaf later on. No objections? Good. We'll get back onto the important thing now.

"How do we stop the bloody Assassins wrong-footing us now? Possession is nine-tenths of the law, as you know, and I want this Bellamy woman in _my_ cell with a watertight case before we go to Vetinari."

* * *

Lord Vetinari read the latest reports and looked more thoughtful than usual.

"Drumknott, please ensure a conference room is held open for our use for the remainder of this week. I think the corner suite on the third floor, with unrivalled views as far as the Opera House and Pseudopolis Yard through its turnwise windows, and of Filigree Street and the Assassins' Guild through its Rimward windows. "

"Very good, sir" said the Patrician's personal secretary "Shall I prepare invitations to Commander Vimes and his staff, and to Lord Downey and the Assassins' Guild investigators?"

"Hold them close to you, Drumknott, in readiness to go out at a moment's notice. I fear we are soon going to run into a demarcation dispute and I will be called upon to arbitrate".

* * *

Damietta Langworthy-Eccles woke up the following morning, stiff and painful. She had asked to retain the services of those two bright and intelligent young maids from last night: Keeble had been happy to oblige. The black girl, the one who had been embarrassed by that _oafish_ Howondalandian, and the clever knowledgeable young girl from Dimwell.

As they cleaned and tended to her injuries – both of them seemed to have _uncommon_ first-aid and nursing skills – she mused, with sorrow, that some poor woman was going to end up _married _to that bullying abrasive colonial. As sure as she could be, she knew that another battered wife was waiting in the wings for DeBeers, and the whole miserable story was going to repeat itself. At least, by the account, the street thugs who had set upon him had dealt some conclusive but non-lethal injury (she knew Thieves were bound not to kill, or the Assassins' Guild would take a severe interest). That should keep him down for a while, although she felt sorry for the staff at the Lady Sybil.

"Ruth, did you really run away from the Embassy?" she asked, gently. "You can trust me!"

Ruth N'Kweze, who in reality was a younger daughter of the Paramount Chief of Kwa'Zululand, shook her head with a smile.

"No, madam." she said "I and my family are _free_ Howondalandians! I have of my own free will worked for a White Howondalandian lady who is generous to her employees and who has never called me a nigger or a kaffir. I believe that is where the gentleman remembered seeing me, and that is how the confusion arose last night."

Damietta nodded.

"And had Commander Vimes chosen to send you to the Embassy last night?"

Ruth smiled.

"Whilst Lady Sybil was privately checking my arms for the slavery-tattoo, she asked how good a runner I was. She assured me that her husband would choose a Watchman such as Sergeant Colon to escort me to the Embassy. If a young girl of my age cannot outrun a fat old man in his fifties, something is wrong with the world."

The three of them laughed together.

Damietta said

"You're very good at this, Sharon Where did you learn to look after injuries like that?"

Rather than draw attention to the Assassins' School's training in first aid and field medicine, Sharon said

"Being a lady's maid is only a job for now, madam. Doctor Lawn trains nurses at the Lady Sybil, and I want to learn, but you have to be sixteen to apply, I take whatever courses I can, so as to be able to show him I can do it when the time comes."

"Well, if you ever need a reference" said Damietta.

They helped her dress, and confirmation reached them that the Master was still in bed snoring with no inclination to rise

Mrs Langworthy-Eccles reached a decision.

"I need to go into town." she said. "Sharon, will you escort me? I'll call a coach."

As they left, one of the gargoyles on the front of the house jerkily angled its neck to follow them. It made a mental note

_Lady of the house leaves in cab. Accompanied by student Assassin identified as Higgins, S. 10:20 am. _

This would be communicated to the Yard and the Palace as part of the surveillance log. Sharon would also debrief this to Joan Sanderson-Reeves, along with other interesting information, later in the day.

The cab's first call was to the Royal Bank. Sharon accepted the instruction to "wait here", and she did this, noting the time and the duration of wait, for twelve minutes. Finally, Mrs Langworthy-Eccles returned, still tucking something into her handbag. Sharon recognised the ornate cross-hatching and gilding on a high-value banker's bond, but showed no reaction.

And then they crossed town again, alighting at a florists' on Pelicool Steps. Sharon caught the flash of glass in the sun from a building on the opposite side of the river. She wondered if it was a telescope, or an iconograph with a long-distance macro lens.

As Damietta entered the shop, she caught the flash again.

Davinia Bellamy recognised a possible client the moment she walked in. The downcast beaten look, the makeup applied heavily to hide the bruising, the fact she walked with obvious pain. This aroused her interest. But all those things could be faked, she reminded herself. This could still be an agent provocateur set up by the Guild or the Watch.

It was a god time, though: she had sent her assistant off on an errand to a far part of the city, and the girl would not be back for a while yet. They were alone in the shop.

"May I help you, mrs…?" she prompted

"Mrs Damietta Langworthy-Eccles." came the reply Davinia remembered the newspaper account. She was now 90% certain she had a genuine special client. The urge to conclude a deadheading surged up unbidden. _This was going to be a live one. Just a couple of security questions. _

They discussed flowers for ten minutes, then Davinia took the liberty of resting her hand on what she judged to be a particularly badly bruised arm. She watched her customer wince, and put on a very sympathetic, attentive, face.

"I thought so. Would you like to talk about it?" she invited. "I've got some very good coffee brewing."

Davinia turned the shop sign from "open" to closed", and prepared two cups. And Damietta told her everything.

And… you heard from your lady's maid that I might be able to assist." she prompted

"A very clever young girl from Dimwell. She's in the cab outside."

"Please bring her in".

Sharon Higgins, like Ruth N'Kweze before her, took in the shop in great detail whilst pretending to observe little. As she had been briefed, she told the cover story that her aunt, whom she named as one of Davinia's earlier customers, had found marital satisfaction after visiting Davinia.

Davinia Bellamy nodded. This all fitted. But a previous customer who was getting indiscreet.. not good.

"And let's say I did. Your aunt doesn't just go around telling _everybody_, does she?"

"No, ma'am. I overheard a conversation she had with my mother, thinking nobody else was listening. You know how it is, you talk freely and in confidence to your sisters, or who else can you talk to?"

Davinia nodded again, reassured. The story fitted.

"Thank you, Sharon. I need to conclude business with your employer. You may leave."

"Yes, ma'am" Sharon said submissively, and returned to the cab.

As the two women talked inside the shop, and a banker's draft made out for three thousand dollars changed hands as a downpayment, from a listening post several hundred yards away, Detective Constable Lychee Chang allowed a big grin to spread across his face

_Bingo. _He hurriedly scribbled down the last shorthand account of the conversation he had overheard.

Detective Constable Lychee Chang was a lapsed monk from Enlightment Country who had suddenly had a reverse vocation, a sudden flash of darkness that had made him renounce his vows and seek confusion and darkness in the big city.

Trained by the Listening Monks to focus on and pick out a single conversation happening several hundred yards away, the wily Captain Carrot had realised what an asset he could be and had signed him up to the Watch. Expressly, to the Particulars. The cost of a sound-proof set of rooms for him to live in, as life in the city was something of an aural ordeal when he wasn't working, had been met by Commander Vimes without a tremor.

As the coach sped away back to Speedwell Lane on the other side of the river, several reports were already converging on Pseudopolis Yard.

The end-game, at least for the Watch, was in sight.

* * *

"We've got her!" Joan said, exultantly. "We've bloody well _got her!"_

Joan had discreetly met the two student Assassins in Hide Park during their lunch-break and debriefed them. What she heard had sent her back to the Guild in a fast cab to confer with Alice, Lord Downey and the QCIC investigators.

"We've got to work fast." Alice urged. "I don't know if you've noticed, Joan, but all our Watch contacts are suddenly unavailable. I saw Sally for a few minutes. She was reluctant to talk, but she hinted that co-operation's over and Vimes is cutting us out of the loop. He wants a quick Watch arrest."

"And we cannot let that happen" Downey said, firmly. "This woman has _skills_. She has _style_. She has _talent_. And you would be the first to tell me the School needs more women teachers. I have, as it happens, got two exciting prospects lined up for you. This third would be the icing on the cake, especially since we have no dedicated botany teacher. Miss Smith-Rhodes has got some very exciting ideas about the future direction of our Natural History department, but she would be he first to admit we cannot proceed without a dedicated botanist of the correct, ah, vocational inclination. How can we be sure of this woman?"

"Sir, even if the Watch get her first, we can appeal to Lord Vetinari?" Alice said.

Downey frowned.

"That is leaving too much to chance. Vetinari might well indulge the Watch, and let them have a day in the sun and a hanging to attend"

"Well, wasn't the deciding factor with me that I aroused too much public sympathy?" Joan inquired. "That the women of this city might storm the Tanty and free me on the scaffold? You might remind him of that."

Downey considered.

You may be sure I will. But to forestall opposition I really need her as a… temporary guest… of this Guild. Bring her in, ladies."

"We have two days" Joan mused. "If she's been paid a deposit, she'll make the move tomorrow or the day after. If we can nab her on the doorstep with a bouquet of killer flowers, we have her."

"I am not sure, under law and Guild charter, if student Assassins are legally able to bring about a detention." Said Mr Brown. "Oh, they are capable young people indeed and I have no doubt at all. But will it stick, legally? We must have some fully licenced Assassins in the vicinity to make the detention stick."

"That's us, then!" Joan said, cheerfully. "Me, Alice, and Emmanuelle. Johanna's going to be sick she's missed out in this, she's contributed so much!"

They worked out a plan. An elderly retired Assassin lived on Speedwell Lane, within sight of the Langworthy-Eccles estate. He would be asked to put up with the inconvenience of the three lady Assassins using his home as an observation point. The moment Davinia Bellamy arrived bearing flowers, they would move out, overpower her, and return her to the OP. The student Assasins inserted into deep cover at the house would secure he evidence, and hopefully by the time the Watch turned out, it would be a done deal.

But as General Tacticus had once famously remarked, no battle plan survives first contact with the enemy.

* * *

Alice sipped her tea appreciatively, as she sat by the window watching the front of the Langworthy-Eccles house. Old Jeremiah Grinstead (Cobra House) had been more than happy to host them, making gallant remarks like "Teachers at the School never looked like this in _my_ day!" and telling them long-winded anecdotes about student life seventy years before. Joan and Emmanuelle, off watching duty, listened appreciatively, Emmanuelle philosophically remarking that it was brightening up life for _le pauvre vieux_.

The poor old man, pathetically pleased he could still make a contribution to the active profession in his late eighties, was physically frail, but mentally sharp, asking astute questions about the new generation of lady Assassins and their aptitude for the profession, and insisting his domestic retainers press drinks and refreshments on the ladies. They drank sparingly, not wanting to be compromised by biology at a critical moment, but it was Emmanuelle's fate to be at the privy when Alice shouted

"_She's here!"_

"_Ah! Merde alors!" _came an answering frustrated shriek.

"Follow on when you're ready!" shouted Joan, as she ran after Alice. The two women ran into the road across to their target.

Davinia Bellamy took a cab right to the door of the Langworthy-Eccles home with a bundle of flowers, their blooms very carefully wrapped in see-through cellophane paper.

"This won't take a moment" she assured the driver, as she got out. The exultant feeling of concluding a deadheading surged and sang through her. She felt suddenly very alive and aware of he vivid quality of colour and even the finest sound. She could swear she could hear… running feet?

She frowned, and sought to conclude the delivery.

The door unexpectedly opened to her. She was blinded by an iconograph flash near her face. Other hands took the flowers from her and sought to grab her, but somehow she evaded them and stumbled back into the cab.

_This wasn't meant to happen! _An inner voice screamed, as she leapt up into the cab, more by luck than judgement. Instinctively, she kicked out at arms that were trying to grab her legs. She heard a faint "oof…", a male voice, and a body crashed to the gravel. The tug at her legs ceased. Bujt he running feet were now crunching on a gravel path. She swung her legs in and slammed the cab door shut, locking it and calling an address to the driver, who instinctively picked up speed.

She could hear an authoritive female voice calling

_Davinia Bellamy! Stop right where you are. You are under arrest! _

But the cabbie put on a gallop and was son out in the open road. Fighting to regain vision through a series of actinic flashes, Davinia heard the driver call down

"I ain't doing nothing illegal, ma'am! 'Least, not without a big bonus!"

"You'll get it. You can say I held a crossbow to your head, or something."

Was that a thump, as of something hitting the back of the cab hard? Davinia didn't stop to pursue its significance She knew it was all lost now, and her heart pounded. She also recalled she'd instinctively given the cab driver her home address.

* * *

Ruth very gingerly pushed the flowers blooms-down into a large bin, as she'd been briefed. Trying not to breathe, she covered it with a tablecloth

Stepping back, she took a grateful long shuddering breath.

"Ah. My flowers Give them to me, please."

Mrs Langworthy-Eccles.

Ruth shook her head.

"I can't allow you to do that, ma'am. I'm sorry. I really can't."

Ruth would have been ready for any reaction, up to and including physical violence.

Shuddering, defeated, broken, sobbing tears were not what she'd expected. She went to comfort her erstwhile employer.

* * *

"_Overconfidence, Mr Webbley!" _Student assassin Richard Webbley, doubled up in pain after a very well-aimed kick in the groin, looked up through painful tears at Alice Band as she passed him on her way to the house.

"Buy the farm, lad." Joan Sanderson-Reeves said, kindly, as she passed. "By the look of you, you've already got a couple of achers".

They went into the house and showed their Guild badges.

"Assassins' Guild investigation." Said Alice "Nobody, but nobody, touch those flowers! Miss N'kweze here and Miss Higgins will see to it that nobody goes near those flowers. This is an attempted murder scene…ah, Sergeant Littlebottom!"

The first Watch patrol had arrived, alerted by the gargoyle. _They must have had an observation post here too, _Alice reflected. _Only we got here first! _

"Thanks for securing the area, Alice" Cheery said. "You can leave it to us now."

"Gladly!" Alice said. She pointed at a footman she didn't recognise as an undercover student.

"You!" she said. "Get us a coach. Now." The footman ran off, recognising Assassin black and the harmonics of a teacher's voice.

Richard Webbley hobbled in.

Ma'am, just after she kicked me while I was trying to detain her, I heard the address she gave the cabbie.."

"Whisper it to me, then!" Joan barked, not wanting the Watch to overhear. She nodded, hearing a coach pull up to the front of house.

"Ours, I think. And I know _exactly_ where she's gone to ground!"

"Miss N'Kweze, Miss Higgins. Mr Webbley. Help the Watch with their inquiries. And thank you!." Alice called, as they ran to the coach.

"Bash on, driver!" Joan cried, as it sped off.

* * *

Emmanuelle growled with frustration, realising she was a long way behind her two colleagues. She smiled at he old man as she ran out in the street towards their target.

Suddenly, a licenced cab came galloping out. Emmanuelle had a hint of mousy blonde hair and glasses. She tensed. This could only be attempted once. As the cab passed her, she coiled and leapt, her superbly honed athlete's body responding to the challenge. Then she was climbing to a secure position on the back of the cab, travelling Hubwards with it as it speeded through the city.

She noted it was coming to a stop.

_14 Spa Lane. Just off Hope Springs. The Bellamys' home address. She will make her last stand here. _

Emmanuelle waited while Davinia paid the cab driver, by the simple expedient of emptying her purse into his hands. He tipped his hat to her and began to canter off. She dropped from the back of the cab and carefully followed Davinia Bellamy to the house.

_Now the sensible thing to do is to watch and wait. But what if the people who will assuredly follow and get here first are the Watch? Lord Downey will not be pleased. Eh bien. A girl must do…_

Intent on concluding the arrest solo, Emmanuelle crept into the Bellamys' front garden, noting how well-tended it was. She noted the front door was invitingly open.

"Mrs Bellamy?" she said "This is the Assassins' Guild. You should be so kind as to give yourself up…oooof!"

Emmanuelle fell forwards, thinking "Oveconfidence, _ma petite_. A desperate woman, defending her home…"

And then unconsciousness.

* * *

Davinia Bellamy threw down the remains of the flowerpot she had just used to hit the woman over the head with. She reflected the Assassin was not going to be pleased when she woke up. She removed Emmanuelle's sword-belt and threw it aside, feeling no desire to pick up weapons she didn't know how to use.

The girl was breathing regularly and blood oozed from a cut on her scalp. She didn't have long before the girl woke up. Grabbing her arms and half-dragging her, Davinia took her round to the back of the house, knowing where she could use her life as a bargaining counter.

* * *

"Follow that bloody coach!" Sam Vimes yelled at the Ramkin family driver. One of the Watchmen accompanying Cheery, who was quick on the uptake and realised the Assassins had no intention of trading information, had sprinted off across Kingsway, risking life and limb to the traffic, to alert Vimes, who was using Ramkin Manor as a command-post.

He had blurted out a report to Vimes, who had hustled him and three other Watchmen into a Ramkin coach with orders to the driver to intercept a coach-load of Assassins, travelling Hubwards up Seven Sleepers' Road to Pallant Street.

* * *

"We're being followed, m'dear. Watch. Sam Vimes is up on the driver's seat and doesn't look too pleased at all. Positively stone-faced, I'd say."

"Hmm. Wonder if he's worked it out yet?" asked Alice.

Davinia finished her final preparations and sat, ashen-faced and with beating heart, where she could watch the approach routes into the garden. She hoped they wouldn't make too great a mess or trample on any young growth when they attacked. Behind her, the now securely tied Assassin groaned into wakefulness.

_One way or another, it will soon be over_, she reflected.

* * *

"Tip the driver, Alice. _Noblesse oblige_, and all that!" Joan requested.

Alice found a dollar, which was gratefully accepted. Then, with all caution, she followed Joan into the garden.

Joan suddenly stopped and picked something up from the grass. It was instantly recognisable: Emmanuelle's cherished sword-belt. Both women drew breath. She wouldn't abandon this willingly. Their friend was in trouble.

They moved on, watching for trouble, Anyone who could lay out Emmanuelle in a fight, a woman with many inhumations to her name, was going to be a tough proposition. Tougher than they had suspected.

And then they found her.

* * *

"Lost them, sir!" the Ramkin driver reported. Vimes scowled. Although the press of traffic on the city's roads made it hard to follow, let alone catch up with, or overtake.

"Ok, then. Let's try police intuition here. I've read all the reports. This is a woman who prides herself on being a home-maker and mum to a family. She's in deep trouble. I notice from the general direction we're taking that we're close to her home address. I'm betting that's where she'd run to when the ability to think clearly has gone. Fourteen Spa Lane. In your own time, driver."

"Yes, sir!"

The coach cantered off again. They paused only to stop and question the driver of a familiar-looking coach that was travelling Rimwards down Pallant Street. Faced with arrest, the driver confessed that yes, guv, them two women Assassins dropped off at a house on Spa Lane. Well, what could I do, they're bloody _Assassins_, aren't they…"

* * *

"_Don't come any closer!" _a shrill voice yelled at Joan and Alice. _"I've got your friend. She's safe, for now."_

"Glad to hear it" said Joan, affably. "Because you would not even _begin_ to know what sort of trouble you get into for killing an Assassin!"

Joan and Alice walked cautiously forward. They saw Davinia Bellamy, hair and glasses askew, sitting in front of an open hot-house, surrounded by plant-pots Behind them they heard other people running into the garden.

"The game's up, Bellamy!" they heard Vimes roaring.

Joan half-turned her head.

"Be careful, Commander!" she called. "You don't know what those plants are, and she's got a hostage! She's armed and incredibly dangerous!"

Alice heard a large dog growling, a noise that began somewhere in the low bowel-troubling sonic and ascended into a world of threat. Then a large golden-haired wolf accelerated forward. Davinia Bellamy barely hesitated before selecting a plant-pot and throwing it, accurately. It shattered a foot or two in front of the wolf, scattering green foliage everywhere. The effect on Angua was instantaneous. She howled, stopped dead, and turned tail, staggering back towards the Watchmen.

"_That was wolfsbane!" _Davinia shrieked. "And I've got plenty more. Garlic too, for your vampire! Stand back!"

Alice and Joan looked at each other.

"She's a born Assassin." Joan whispered "What an _asset_!"

"And that's assault on a Watch member!" said Vimes, triumphantly. "I've got you on that, if nothing else."

"Really, commander? I saw a wolf! Where was her badge?"

"And she's learning to think under pressure." Alice whispered back, appreciatively.

Davinia looked at them.

"Where's the other one?" she demanded. "The redhead? From what I read, the four of you are inseperable friends."

"I wouldn't go _that_ far…" Alice began "And anyway, she's…." Joan kicked her ankle, urgently.

"She's nearer than you think, m'dear."

They took the opportunity to take another couple of steps forwards, as Davinia suspiciously turned round, as if expecting Johanna Smith-Rhodes to emerge from hiding behind her.

"No further!" Davinia demanded, picking up another plant and making as if to throw it.

The two women were almost in range now. One last lunge forwards…

And then something emerged from within the hothouse. Tangles and lengths of green tendrilled creeper hung from her arms and body, some of it festooned with suckers and hooks. Her once-stylish black clothing was torn and hung from her body, and blood oozed from wounds to her arms and hands as well as a large broken bruise to her forehead. Emmanuelle was not having a good day.

The she stepped forward and pinioned Davinia's arms to her body, loudly saying

"Be so good as to cease fighting, _s'il tu plait_. I am not an unreasonable woman and I do not hold a grudge, happily for you. But I arrest you, in the name of the Guild of Assassins. _C'est fini, cherie_!"

Joan stepped forwards. There was only one form of words to speak, and she was empowered by Downey to speak it.

"I believe you have an appointment with the Master of the Guild, m'dear. In the circumstances, if we could borrow a pair of handcuffs from the Watch…"

"Now hold on!" Vimes protested. "That's _our_ prisoner! And in any case I've got her for assault on Sergeant Angua!"

A patch of deeper darkness detached itself from a shadow among the apple trees at the edge of the garden.

"I do find a stroll in a well-tended garden is _so_ rejuvenating" said the Patrician. "I _do_ hope it will not be allowed to go to rack and ruin. That would be a shame. You have some prime examples of _magnolia grandiflora _here, Doctor Bellamy. So hard to grow in our unforgiving Hubwards climate, but a sweet reminder of Genua to all who know that city. You are to be congratulated."

Vetinari turned benevolently to the pursuers.

" I rather anticipated a demarcation dispute of his nature." He said So I have made arrangements for a hearing at the Palace to consider who gets to decide Doctor Bellamy's future. In the meantime, I also anticipated the, ah, denouement would happen here, so I gained access to this garden to stand back and observe results."

"You were _here_?" Emmanuelle demanded, affronted and angered. "You were here all along? When she knocked me out, stole my swords – oh thank you, Alice, _ma très chere amie! _Then she tied me to one of her flesh-eating monsters in the hothouse and bade me sit very still for fear of being eaten? _And you did nothing to assist?"_

The Patrician raised a mollifying hand.

"My dear Madame Deux-Épées!" he said "Formerly known as The Black Widow, I believe. You malign me. Please ask yourself why the otherwise efficient Doctor Bellamy left a pair of secateurs just within reach of your right hand, so that you were able to use your skills and resources as a Licenced Assassin, and cut yourself free? She would not make an error like that. And if not she, then who? I like to give everyone a fair chance, and I do abhor needless and wasteful death."

Emmanuelle fell silent. The Patrician smiled.

"To the palace, I think. Lord Downey will have received my request for his attendance by now."


	20. Judgement

_**The MGC returns? C15+6**_

The conference room at the Palace felt uncomfortably full.

Davinia Bellamy sat, head bowed and handcuffed, in the centre of the room, flanked by a guarding Assassin on one side and a Watchwoman on the other. On the urgent recommendation of Joan Sanderson-Reeves, she had previously been strip-searched and checked for possible weapons, in the form of sachets of pollen or other plant-derived poisons, before being allowed to tidy herself up, dress and face the hearing. While Joan and the watchwoman Precious Jolson had tried to make it as easy and unembarrassing for her as possible, her face was still red with shame and humiliation.

In front of her, Vetinari took centre-place at the table, with Commander Vimes on one side and Lord Downey on the other. Others with an interest in giving evidence, principally Alice Band, Joan, Emmanuelle, André, Cheery Littlebottom, a recovered but groggy-looking Angua and several student assassins, sat or stood to one side.

"I won't waste time." Vetinari said. "You are Doctor Davinia Bellamy, of 14 Spa Lane, Ankh-Morpork "

" I am" she agreed.

"You are accused of the murders of a total of twelve men and one woman. Thirteen, if the earlier mysterious death of a college professor in Brindisi is taken into account. Do you wish to register a plea?"

There was a brief pause. The she said, in a loud clear voice:

"Guilty."

There was a collective sigh, as if the world had righted itself after a stumble.

Vetinari nodded.

"The evidence will be collated by my clerks, who will before the session is declared closed, take formal written statements from all present here, and from others who may be called to these proceedings. "

He steepled his fingers and regarded Davinia with interest.

"May I ask – why did you do it, Doctor Bellamy? You have your own business, you have a happy marriage, you have a loving husband and three sons who do you credit. This is not the normal hobby of a wife and mother."

"I wanted to make the world a better place. A cleaner place. A safer place for women and children everywhere. And everywhere I looked there seemed to be battered wives, abused children and men who were allowed to get on with it and do as they damn well pleased."

Joan nodded. Those had been her motives too, in the old days. She couldn't help but feel sympathetic. She felt Vetinari's gaze fall upon her, he very carefully obscuring what he might be thinking or feeling. She met his eyes. Eventually he looked away and back to Davinia.

"It is possible to sympathise with you. It is possible to understand your point of view. People have killed for less exalted motives and with less altruistic reasons. But nevertheless it is still murder. As Patrician of his city I cannot overlook it and I have no alternative but to impose the death penalty. The situation calls for nothing less."

He watched her head droop for a moment, the her eyes lifted and met his again.

"Which will be hard on your husband and worst for your sons."

Vetinari paused to let it sink in, and went on.

"In normal circumstances I would have you remanded to the Tanty for three days and you would be executed on the third day. But there are complicating factors here. As it would cause distress to your husband for you to be incarcerated in his place of work, an alternative place of remand must be found for you. Secondly, I am persuaded that the Assassins' Guild has a legitimate interest in this case, as you may not be aware that three of the men you inhumed were subject to Guild contract. Therefore, your actions deprived the Guild of revenue, and not unreasonably, they object to gifted freelancers taking over their job. You also accepted money for informal contracts to kill people. This is unlicenced assassination, and the Guild has an interest in punishing such activity.

"It would therefore spare your husband additional grief and sorrow if I handed you over to the Guild to punish as they see fit. The sentence, I need not say, is invariably death. "

Vetinari paused.

"As both the City and the Guild have an interest in your punishment, the fair thing for me to do is to leave it up to you to choose. I will give you thirty minutes to decide."

"No need, my lord. I choose the Guild."

Vetinari nodded.

"A good choice, doctor. By the way, do you believe in angels?"

"My Lord?"

"Now you have clearly chosen the Guild to decide your future, I believe Lord Downey has one to offer to you. Listen carefully to what he has to say."

"Doctor Bellamy, we have over the past two months been watching your career with some interest. I have a certain proposition to put to you…."

To Joan and Alice and Emmanuelle, the next ten minutes were agonisingly familiar, as all three had been called upon to make a similar choice some years beforehand.

"Should you accept, you will be called upon to commence a year of accelerated training that will make you a full licenced Assassin. I must warn you there are no guarantees in life, and should you make a wrong move due to carelessness, poor preparation or over-confidence, it is possible you could die during training or during your final examination But be assured that nobody will be actively out to kill you. After successful completion of the course, we have a career to offer you at the Guild school. You will of course be allowed to maintain your business interests outside the Guild, and you will be given time and space to nominate suitable people to look after your business for you while you are training full-time with us

"However, Doctor Bellamy, as a condition of what you should look upon as a suspended sentence, there are to be no more inhumations until you qualify as a Licenced Assassin, and any annulments – I believe you call them _deadheadings_? - are to be carried out strictly under Guild rules and protocols. This is important, as you will not be offered a second chance. Any breach of this condition and the death sentence will be activated without mercy or plea. You will also be remanded into the custody of the Guild of Assassins. Suitable rooms will be prepared for you, and you will have full freedom of movement within the Guild premises. You may only leave the premises under he supervision of a full licenced Assassin or for legitimate training purposes. This condition will be reviewed during your year of training. Just sign here… good! I believe the Guild's groundsman keeps greenhouses and a hothouse. There may well be things to do there to occupy your time, and of course your husband and sons will have visiting rights.

"Welcome to the Guild family, Doctor Bellamy. I will be watching your career with interest, but I believe I see the makings of a fine Assassin in you. One little word of advice, though: do endeavour to stay away from Madame Deux-Épées until her pride has healed!"

There was general laughter.

Emmanuelle, rubbing her sore arms where bandages had been applied, said, drily: "I will be very careful, my Lords, before I ever again call a pupil overconfident! The good lady doctor has given me more trouble today than ANY of the men I inhumed. I am very much looking forward to being a part of her training!"

"Indeed so." Vetinari said. "Doctor Bellamy, your husband and sons are waiting in an adjacent room. Perhaps you might care to join them and explain your decision to them? Constable Jolson? Please escort her. Thank you."

She left the room, looking relieved and happy.

Vetinari leant to his left.

"A fair decision, Commander Vimes?"

"We've been here before, sir. And it seemed to work out alright." He said, diplomatically. His eyes met and held Joan's.

"At least my Watch were in at the kill. Even if the Assassins got her, right at the last gasp."

But a harmonic in his voice said _just wait till next time, you black-clad S.O.B.'s, The "S.O". part being optional, ladies._

"It was a good productive exercise in co-operation, sir." said André, diplomatically . "I appreciated the help and general positive support of the Guild, and speaking for myself, I hope there are others like it."

"Except that _we_ get the guilty party, Inspector!" Vimes corrected him.

Vetinari nodded.

"And on that productive note, may we move onto mrs Damietta Langworthy-Eccles, and the case of attempted murder raised against her."

André raised a hand, diffidently. "According to the two young ladies from the Guild who were with her, when they prevented her from taking charge of the flowers to be used as a murder weapon, she just crumpled up and all the life seemed to go out of her. She's now in the Bedlam wing of the Lady Sybil with acute catatonia, and Doctor Lawn's considered opinion is that she is unfit to plead on the grounds of insanity. Her husband has initiated proceedings for divorce."

Perhaps only Vetinari and Alice Band noticed Joan's face take on a dark disapproving set, and the way she nodded once as if she had just made a decision.

"We can safely leave this case to rest on the file, then." He said. "I'm pleased. The unhappy woman certainly endured severe and persistent provocation"

Vetinari looked around the room.

"I should just like to thank everyone for their diligence and unstinting application to solving this case. I would also like the record to show my personal appreciation of the exceptionally high calibre of student currently attending the Assassins' Guild school, and that in my opinion their input to solving this case was impeccable. Their teachers are to be congratulated as indeed are they. Now just one thing remains to us. I consider Mr Peter Bellamy has had long enough with his wife to accustom himself to the fact he is now married to an Assassin. Bring him in, please, Drumknott."

Peter Bellamy, in uniform, carried himself like a younger version of Vimes. Helmet under his arm, he marched to the desk and threw up a parade-ground salute.

"You asked to see me, sir?"

"Yes, I think I did. I did indeed."

He remained silent for a long time, watching Bellamy for a reaction. Inside, Peter was quaking, aware that his resolve to aid his wife by covering up murder evidence had been discovered. Was he due a stay in the Tanty himself?

"No blame attaches to you for your wife's actions. That goes without saying. And it is possible to have secrets within a marriage where a husband goes in blissful ignorance of his wife's extra-marital activities until the very last minute. I'm sure today must have come as a shock to you."

"It certainly did, sir. But at least she's still alive and has a future."

"As do you. I have given thought to the new direction of the Prison Service and I must advise you that Sir Martin is standing down as governor of the Tanty for health reasons."

"When does he leave, sir?"

"Oh, I've yet to tell him. But no great rush. I have decided hat his successor as Governor will be a person with a natural flair for the job and the correct attitude towards the welfare of prisoners. As it carries with it the rank of Knight, I will in due course be investing Dame Amorine Maccalariat with the warrant and seal of office. You wil be promoted to serve as her Deputy Governor. A modest increase in stipend will follow. You are of course free to break this news to Miss… _Dame_ Maccalariat as soon as I inform Sir Martin he is resigning. Thank you, you are dismissed. And the best of luck in your new appointment."

Bellamy left, inwardly thanking several Gods for the capricious nature of Fate. Vinnie under lifelong probation, but still alive, and he promoted. Things could have been so much worse…


	21. Epilogues

_**The MGC returns? Epilogues**_

_**A month later.**_

Gerald Langworthy-Eccles sat in his study, trying to make sense of import-export notes and bills of lading for his ships, making himself work through the recent crushing shock of discovering his faithless wife had conspired to murder him.

As additional proof she had been the wrong woman to marry, she had proven to be so mentally unstable as to end up a basket case in the lunatic ward at the Lady Sybil, blast her worthless hide. Still, he was divorcing the wretched woman and leaving her without a penny. Slant and Honeyplace were expensive, but they were the best in town: that damned bloodsucking vampire Honeyplace had assured him that the divorce would be uncontested and he would need do more than make a conscience-saving donation to the Lady Sybil towards the cost of her cure.

He rang again, impatiently, to the kitchen. Damn place was going to pot since that fateful morning when the woman went mad. I mean… killing him with _flowers_. He hadn't believed the Watch at first and had only grudgingly believed them when that clever little Dwarf had shown him files and photographs. Still, it was all over now. He doubted anyone else would come chasing after him now trying to kill him, and after this divorce was done, he could set about getting a new wife, one who _appreciated_ him more than that bloody ungrateful cow had ever done.

_Where in the seven Hells was that cup of tea? _

He forced himself to wait for a few seconds more. There was a knock on the door.

"Enter!" he boomed.

A black-clad housemaid entered, pushing a tea trolley. Gerald frowned. There was something subtly different about the black she wore, it didn't seem to be the plain and simple everyday housemaid's black. But she must be a maid, as she was wearing a white lace pinny over the front.

"Your tea, sir" she said, keeping her eyes demurely downcast.

He nodded.

"Bring it over here".

The maid, an older lady of about fifty, (he noted he'd have to tell Gillespie about that: send the young pretty ones in future, we must have _some_), obligingly wheeled the tea-trolley over and poured him a cup Without thanks, he took it and drank, going back to his paperwork. After a while he looked up.

"Still here?" he said, crossly, to the elderly maid, who was looking at him expectantly. He noted, abstractly, his lips were numb.

She nodded down at him.

"It's beginning to work, then. Good. Right now you should be feeling it in your lips" she said, pleasantly.

What was the damned impudent woman doing _now_? Damned if she wasn't rummaging on his desk, messing things up, looking for something…

"Isn't it always the way? You can never find a wretched pen when you need one. Ah, here we are."

She made a space by pushing a stack of his paperwork off the desk. He tried to shout at her but found he had no voice. He tried to push her from his desk but found he had no fingers.

Meanwhile the woman was humming a tune as she filled in…. a receipt?

"You are by now unable to speak. Your upper body is paralysed. Shortly you will be fighting for breath." she said, in an unconcerned voice. "Whoops, almost forgot. "

She took the lace apron off, leaving only the black. The pure, expensive-looking, black. All servility had gone from her now and she glanced at him, a sardonic, somewhat contemptuous, look on her face.

"Jolly bad form to stay in disguise at the critical moment." she said. She blotted her receipt – on his blotter! – and then waved it in front of his eyes. He read the large header.

**Guild of Assassins**

And the smaller print underneath

_Official Receipt for Services_

It was dated, and her name, he noted, began with "J".

She stood in front of him, leant forward, then folded the receipt and left it tucked neatly in his top pocket.

"We've got a few moments before you die, Gerald, so I can spend those moments telling you what a worthless disgusting little tick you are." she said. "You're a louse, Gerald. A bullying greedy pompous braggart who drove his wife to try to kill him, and when that failed, drove her insane. Well, you'll die before the divorce is finalised, so she'll still be your widow and she'll get everything. The hospital tell me she's responding well to love and patience, but you wouldn't know anything about that because it never would have occurred to you to ask."

"your wife wasn't the only one with a grudge against you. This is an entirely different contract to inhume and no, I'm _not_ telling you who paid for it. And I'll tell you now I don't give a stuff for their reasons. Mine are that you're a wife-beating shit of a man with no right to walk upon the Gods' green Disc, and this world will be a lot better for your passing."

Gerald Langworthy-Eccles felt he was swimming through a mist, with the dour-faced woman Assassin looking dispassionately at him, her bony face swimming in and out of focus.

"Your eyes are failing, you're suffocating for lack of breath, and any moment now…."

Gerald gave a last convulsive shudder, and was still.

The woman nodded, then rummaged in a lower level of her tea-trolley until she found an iconograph, and took the picture that proved the contract had been honoured.

Then, because she believed in cleaning up after her, she replaced her pinny, and wheeled the tea-trollley back to the kitchen, taking care to sluice out the poisoned cup.

Later, she registered her claim and collected twelve thousand (after tax) in Guild bonds. She paid off the balance of the Personal Equipment Account**(1)** for four named student assassins (Richard Webbley, Jim Coogan, Sharon Higgins and Darleen O'Hagan), paid the remainder into her own savings account at the Royal Bank, then resumed her teaching duties at the Guild School.

As was the custom, at Prayers that night just before High Dinner, the Master noted that the Inhumation Bell had been rung four times that day and read out the day's Roll of Honour to the assembled School.

"Sir Roger Masenfield, baronet, of Quirm, was assisted from this vale of tears by the Honourable Patrick fFitch-Moore, of Pernypopax House.

"Mr Arnold Fettler of Nap Hill, Ankh-Morpork, was guided accross the veil to that which lies beyond, by Toby Baxter, of Cobra House.

"The Reverend Obidiah Golightly-Sprong of Pseudopolis was drawn a good deal nearer to his God than he anticipated when he got up this morning, by Martin Cox of Viper House.

"And finally but by no means least, Mr Gerald Langworthy-Eccles of Speedwell Lane, Ankh-Morpork, benefitted immeasurably from marriage guidance counselling conducted by Miss Joan Sanderson-Reeves, this school's Head of Bursary, Scholarship and Day pupils."

Joan and Davinia had between them created a new euphemism.

_

* * *

__Two months later_

Davinia Bellamy completed a circuit of Hide Park's lake in under fourteen minutes. This was well up on her first time of twenty-seven minutes, recorded some six weeks before when she had been allowed to start a fitness regime under the experienced eye of senior Assassins.

Fourteen minutes certainly wasn't enough to out-run Johanna Smith-Rhodes, her escort for the morning, who could do it in eleven. But with a backpack full of bricks, it was good enough for Johanna to be impressed with the older woman's progress.

"Look, we're both cerrying twenty pounds in dead weight." Johanna had said, kindly. "It looks like rain, so shell we meke it beck to the Guild, nice steady jog? End you ere doing well. For this, you must be fit! End you ere getting fitter every dey. Kiff!"

_And this is even before she begins, _Johanna thought. _She may well pass. She has the guts for it. _

* * *

_Three months later_

"Welcome to the Assassins' Guild!" Lord Downey said to the full conference room Behind him, eight members of the permanent staff, full Assassins all, studied the thirty new trainees impassively and silently.

This was the second Mature Students Class: this one was composed of twenty-one men and nine women, who were earmarked, if they passed, for various jobs within the Guild's structure and bureaucracy. The Guild needed a new Librarian, for instance: and dual-qualified Assassin/Librarians were thin on the ground. With the School's one elderly art teacher coming up to retirement, here was a moribund School department needing new blood. At least two of the Candidates were suitably qualified.

"you are all here because you have all come to the attention of the Guild Council for the same reason and you all have have something in common.

"None of you are Guild members, and yet at one time or another, you have all, without exception, accepted money in return for facilitating annulments. I'm glad that in our private discussions with you, you have all agreed that this is a regrettable state of affairs that the Guild simply cannot allow to continue. We just cannot allow freelance, non-Guild, Assassins to operate."

Lord Downey paused to allow this to sink in. His eyes scanned the room, meeting the eyes of each in turn.

"The circumstances in which each of you inhumed have been investigated. In many cases you carried out the inhumation, despite your lack of formal training, with commendable qualities of skill, resource, discretion and style. Most of you are of good or reputable family. You therefore, in the eyes of the Guild, have the aptitude and background to rectify this earlier omission and qualify as licenced Assassins. As the Guild does not approve of un-necessary or wasteful death, I am pleased you have all chosen the option of joining this Guild as mature candidates for full membership."**(2)**

Standing behind him, Alice Band allowed this to pass over her with half an ear. She'd been here before, after all, but on the other side of the desk. She watched the candidates, who were alert, apprehensive and worried at the thought of the coming year. Just as she had been.

"The oldest person to pass out as a full Assassin was forty-eight years old when she qualified. It is perfectly achievable given strength, fortitude, and positivity of mind."

Alice and Joan exchanged a secret smile.

"You are to undergo, over the next a year, a greatly accelerated version of the training course which produces at its end a Licenced Assassin. As mature students, as people from good social backgrounds, you will of course have assimilated many of the social and life skills which we normally have to teach to pupils of school age, which attenuates the course somewhat for you.

"Not all of you will succeed. Some will fall by the wayside in various ways, and others will fall at the final hurdle of the Examination. But simply by being here, you have all tacitly agreed that this is the best of the available options. All that is necessary now is for you all to sign an affidavit to the intent that you are here of your own free will, and to agree that in the event of failure to complete the course, your next of kin will not be able to sue the Guild. Although, of course, compensation for loss of a parent will be paid by the Guild to children under eighteen, as we are not an uncaring organization.

"However, to those of you with children, do pay thought to the fact that even as associate Guild members, if your childd shows promise, we may be prepared to educate him or her at a reduced fee cost. Please see me privately if this interests you.

"Some of you, in arriving in this room today, will have committed inhumations upon individuals for whom a Guild contract existed. This deprived a Guild member of the opportunity to earn a fee, which was another good reason for us to step in and detain you, and presents Mr Wimvoe the Guild Treasurer with a minor bookkeeping problem. We are not an unfair organization. In those instances, the fee due will remain in abeyance until you have qualified as an Assassin. It will then be retrospectively paid to you – you will have more than earned it – the moment the situation is rectified and you have your Licence. Less, of course, tuition, accommodation, and equipment fees. The rest of you, if you are not in a position to pay for the cost of the training you are about to undergo, will be offered a zero-interest student loan, redeemable against your first successful inhumations. Of course, some of you will go directly to the teaching faculty at the School to meet our perceived need for more female teachers. A similar _de facto_ loan will be redeemed against your salaries over the first few years of employment. The same applies to those who are taken on by the Palace as Dark Clerks.

"You will each be personally mentored by two full Assassins, at least one of whom will have passed out from the previous Mature Students Class. The details of mentorship will be dealt with by Miss Sanderson-Reeves who will read you the list.."

Davinia Bellamy was not surprised to find she had drawn Joan Sanderson-Reeves and Madame Deux-Epees. She fervently hoped the Quirmian teacher did not hold a grudge, or she was in trouble.

"All that remains for me to say is "Good Luck", ladies and gentlemen , and I look forward to meeting with you over the coming year – which will be one of hard dedicated work and commitment. Thank you."

_

* * *

__One year later:-_

"Well, that concludes the Vivat, Mrs Bellamy. All that remains now is the final test of all. Follow me, if you please."

Her examiner, Baron Striefenkanen, led her to where a recognisably human body lay under a sheet. Davinia's flesh crawled. Although she had killed at least thirteen times, she had never actually been there when the body hit the ground. This was totally new to her.

Steifenkanen and the second examiner, Mr Mericet, exchanged glances.

_I'm going to do this my way or not at all, _she thought, rebelliously.

From an equipment pouch, she took an absorbent cloth and abottle of liquid in a brown bottle. She let the examiners note the breathing filters she inserted, carefully, into each nostril. Then she soaked the cloth in the sweet-smelling fluid, taking care not to breathe too deeply. Moving silently to the figure under the blanket, she swiftly gripped it by the back of the neck and applied the pad to the face. Although she realised instantly it was a well-crafted dummy, she silently counted to a hundred in her head before releasing a grip honed and made muscular by physical exercise and continual weapons practice.

She dropped both bottgle and cloth into a waste sack, stepped back, and said:

"Ether. It brings about unconsciousness within fifteen seconds. This causes the body to lapse into deep quiescence and all struggling ceases. If all the body breathes in after that is ether, then no less than forty-five seconds of no oxygen – anoxia – brings about death. The client is inhumed."

Her two examiners conferred. Davinia watched anxiously Was this permissible? Did they really want to see her use a sword or a stiletto, weapons she had a pass grade in (thanks to Emmanuelle, who really hadn't borne a grudge) but which she had no appetite for?

Then Mericet turned to her, his dry grave old face wreathed in a smile.

"So many students at this stage forget poisoning is a valid option. Beautifully executed, Doctor Bellamy!"

"I agree" said Streifehnkanen, holding out a pink slip. A big, gruff, man, the Baron was reputed to have some werewolf ancestry in him.

"You are now a licenced Assassin, Doctor Bellamy. You have my sincerest congratulations."

"I concur" agreed Mericet.

" Thank you." Davinia said sincerely, and went out to find Peter and the boys, who she knew would be waiting anxiously. She also wanted to find Joan and Emmanuelle and thank them too.

For the first time in over a year, the threat of death had receded. She had a new life to live now. It felt good.

* * *

_One year and two months later_

Martin Bellamy, aged eleven, waited anxiously in the courtyard of the Assassins' School, wondering what it was going to be like to be a pupil here.

He and Dad and his brothers had had that really awful time just over a year ago when the truth about Mum had come out, and Dad had warned them, struggling to keep his voice level, that whatever else happens, you will be looked after, that's a promise. They had all been scared Mum was going to be executed for what she did, but then the Angel had descended and she'd been offered a way out. For the next year, they'd all helped with her education. Tracey had taken over managing the florists' business (and had shown the door, firmly, regrettably, but politely, to any customer wanting more than just flowers) for Mum. Dad could be seen with her in the designated play area of the garden, the only place where Mum wanted to see balls and things that could damage her plants, in full armour, taking her through her sword and weapon drills. Miss Sanderson-Reeves from the School had taken to dropping by in the evenings, and frequently took tea with the family. Tim had never dared ask, but he wondered if the older lady was a little bit lonely and had missed out on having a family herself. But he sensed he'd see a different side of her here, at the School. As a day boy, he'd be in her class.

Miss Sanderson-Reeves, and the other lady Assassin who called by, the dark-haired Quirmian woman who remembered their birthdays with presents, would sit with Mum, and guide her through things she needed to know to pass. Auntie Emmie, as they called her, was nice, and smiled and laughed a lot, describing Mum as "the only woman to get the better of me in a fight. Of course I'd prefer her as a friend!"

He privately thought it was dead cool that his mum, who he thought could never kill a mouse**(3), **had inhumed so many people. It put her _way _ahead in the Cool Parent stakes. He wondered how many other guys his age had a mum who was a mass murderess, sorry, trained Assassin. He also knew she'd faithfully banked all the fees she'd received to pay for his and his brothers' educations. And now she was a member of this select club, it got her a discount on having a son go to school here. So she'd negotiated with the School on their taking him now, and his little brother in two or three years, and money had changed hands. Their older brother Simon was perfectly happy at the Builders' Guild School, wanting as he did to go into construction.

He hoped it wouldn't make a difference that his mum taught at the school he attended. He'd been warned not to expect any favours, not from Mum or "Auntie Joan". But it looked like it was going to be fun for the next seven years.

He noted a dark-haired and pretty girl of his own age, also a new pupil, smiling and winking at him. Sligtly abashed, he winked back. She giggled.

And the school had other interests, too...

* * *

**(1) **As generations of indentured Assassins have grumbled, the School serves bloody expensive **PEAs. **

**(2) **See my story_**The Graduation Class.**_

**(3) **She regularly killed mice, in a dispassionate and necessary way, that she thought were threatening her plants. Some of her more sophisticated plants regularly killed their own ration of mice and rats. the Death of Rats was a frequent visitor to Davinia's garden and greenhouses and often performed his necessary work halfway up a carnivorous plant.


End file.
